Avenging Angels
by Aleine Skyfire
Summary: An explosion. An ambulance ride. A detective in critical condition. An operation to take down the world's most dangerous criminal. A brother in the thick of things. And one messy situation. A Mycroft-centric AU ending to TGG. Warning: character death.
1. My Brother's Keeper

**Author's Note:**

I think I must be obsessed right now with Mycroft Holmes, canon or modern-day. Especially protective/dangerous!Mycroft.

Enjoy!

**Disclaimer:** Oh, come on, it's so _obvious_ that I'm _not_ Mark Gatiss or Steve Moffat. If I was, _why_ would I be fanfic-ing my own series? Okay, fine—Anthea, Sarah, "Mummy," and this particular incarnation of the Canon belong to those guys; Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes, John Watson, Lestrade, James Moriarty, and Sebastian Moran were (allegedly) created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and now reside in the public domain (where they belong). The name and characterization of a certain character who shall remain nameless for now belongs to me.

* * *

><p><strong>==Avenging Angels==<strong>

_An explosion. An ambulance ride. A detective in critical condition. An operation to take down the world's most dangerous criminal. And a brother in the thick of things. A Mycroft-centric AU ending to TGG. Warning: character death._

* * *

><p><strong>==1. My Brother's Keeper==<strong>

The sun never sets on the British Empire.

_The same could be said of the British Secret Service_, was Mycroft Holmes's thought as he partook of his third cup of coffee for the evening. Ever since he'd started working graveyard shifts in the service of his country, he'd been subsisting on caffeine.

He spared a brief glance at his right-hand, Anthea, busy as ever on her Blackberry. Janet was her real name, but she hated it and took up the name Anthea when she joined MI5. Absolutely practical, actually, considering her line of work.

A sudden, soft noise of surprise from said right-hand made Mycroft look at her again. Her pretty face was creased with mild concern. "Sir? You'd better look at this." She passed him the Blackberry.

It was Sherlock's website, the part where he exchanged messages with people. There was a message from just half an hour ago, left by Sherlock. Mycroft's eyes narrowed as he read it. "The pool…" he mused aloud, then froze. The _pool_. THE pool. Carl Powers… James Moriarty. "Oh my god," he breathed.

Anthea's expression went from mild concern to red alert—her boss _never_ swore. "Sir?"

"Get the team assembled, get a bomb squad, and get an ambulance," Mycroft said hurriedly, pulling open his desk drawer and taking out his pistol. He gave her the location as he loaded the magazine into the gun, and pulled another magazine out, stuffing it into his pocket. "Take your pistol, too."

"Yes, sir." Her thumbs were flying over the keypad at a speed few people could match. The thought briefly flashed through his head that she'd have carpal tunnel in under a year, but that was the least of his concerns right now, and the thought was quickly brushed aside.

He was all but running down the hall, and she was just behind him, still texting away.

"And get Lestrade, and only him!" Mycroft called over his shoulder.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

Forgive me for the slow beginning! Chapter 2 will be up Saturday, though—_possibly_ even tomorrow. Although, it's only fair to warn you that Chapter 3 will be when things _really_ get going. This is not a shoot-'em-up fic, so apologies to those who were looking for it. It is a drama, certainly, with quite a bit of introspection and memories.

And, above all, family. _Mummy_ included. (My readers from the SH fandom proper can now gasp "Cecile!" ^_^)

_**Please review!**_


	2. Watching Your World Explode

**Author's Note:**

I blush for not doing my research properly beforehand! In the first chapter, I said that Anthea had joined the SAS—that was very, VERY wrong. She would have joined either the S_I_S (Secret Intelligence Service, MI6, foreign) or Security Service (MI5, domestic).

So where does that leave Mycroft? I believe that he's probably very high up in the JIC—Joint Intelligence Committee. The team that he's currently using in getting to the pool is most definitely MI5, as it is a domestic affair.

Thank you, Wikipedia. =P

**To my reviewers:**

SabrinaPhynn: Lol. Methinks you really, really like Mycroft. ^_^

Moonspun Dragon: Yes, indeed, and I can't wait to bring her in! Thanks for saying so, hon.

egaara: Heh, sorry to be so cruel! Hope this satisfies you at least somewhat!

**==2. Watching Your World Explode==**

The ride to the pool was pure torture. The laptop with the CCTV feed was set up, and he was watching the drama between his brother and Moriarty unfold before his eyes. He felt a faint stir of pride and even hope for his little brother as he said that people had died. Not a brain without a heart yet, probably largely thanks to the man currently trapped in a Semtex vest.

But whenever Moriarty—conniving, infuriating little James Moriarty—spoke, Mycroft's fists were clenched so tightly that his fingernails were probably branding permanent crescent moons into his palms. He'd warned James _specifically_ to stay away from Sherlock.

The little traitor would _not_ get away with it this time—Mycroft swore it by all that was dear to him.

His brain dimly registered a _ping_ from Anthea's Blackberry, and Anthea deliberately turning the phone _off_. He barely had time to be grateful, though, because Moriarty left, and he didn't dare to breathe as Sherlock and John tried to unwind. It was far too easy, and those two _idiots_ should know it! For heaven's sake, they were a detective and a soldier!

Then Moriarty returned, and Sherlock turned the gun on the bomb. Mycroft felt a useless cry catch in his throat as he saw _everything_ running through his brother's mind. Resolution set in at last, and Mycroft wanted, absurdly, to scream at Sherlock to stop.

The gun went off.

John was already up and rugby-tackling Sherlock into the pool.

The bomb went off.

And the feed went blank.

He heard, distantly, a little cry of shock from Anthea. Numbness set in, a feeling of surrealism. _This isn't happening_. Following on the heels of that reaction was a desperation more crushing than when he'd walked into Sherlock's flat on Montague Street and found his brother collapsed on the floor from cocaine overdose.

_God, don't let my little brother die!_

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

Yes, I'm of the opinion that the bomb went off. I've seen a fair amount of fics out there in which that is not the case, but… c'mon, that would just be too anticlimactic! They _have_ to give us an explosion in the second season! …On the other hand, that's bound to be very damaging to our boys…

So, yeah, this was only just the climax from Mycroft's POV, but I hope you enjoyed that different look on it, nonetheless. Next time, things get original, I promise!

Actually, the more I write for this story, the more it keeps expanding! I keep wanting to tie up more and more loose ends (because I'm like that—I like loose ends tied up), and the story just gets longer and longer. A lot of it is characterization and memories and… ahhh, all that good stuff! =) Don't worry, though—there _will_ be guns. Not shoot-'em-up, but there will indeed be _shooting_.

See y'all next Monday!

_**Please review!**_


	3. See the World Lie in Ruins

**Author's Note:**

Thanks for all the love, people! *basks in the reviews and subscriptions*

**To my reviewers:**

egaara: Thank you very much!

SabrinaPhynn: Lol! …And thank you very much! (I've read both your weekend updates, btw—will have to review later; they were great!)

Spockologist: Thank you! Aw, really? I mean, "The Blind Banker" is actually my fave, but "The Great Game" is the better episode—more intense, more epic… (Btw, have you seen the latest AMM chapter?)

C Elise: Thanks!

Fiji Dreamer: Thank you! Well, it hit me as I was about to type the scene that Mycroft probably _would_ have been watching the feed—glad you liked it!

FuzzyDeMash: Hmm, I'm not sure that he's forgotten, per se—I've read a lot of fics involving him. But I would agree that he doesn't get enough love these days. Thank you!

personofnoconcern3000: Thank you very much!

**==3. See the World Lie in Ruins==**

The cavalry arrived in a blaze of lights and sirens, and as Mycroft burst out of the car, he saw Lestrade running from his own car. "Sherlock!" Mycroft shouted to him, and the D.I. nodded sharply. No more needed to be said.

"Secure the perimeter!" he heard Anthea order as he plunged into the smoking, burning wreck, pulling up his jacket over his nose in a feeble attempt to protect his lungs. Lestrade followed suite.

Both men coughed as they picked their way carefully into the building, hearing the emergency teams behind them. After a long minute, they made it to the pool where Sherlock and John had faced off against Moriarty, passing once the burning corpse of one of Moriarty's snipers. Mycroft felt only a vicious satisfaction at the sight.

"Where are they?" Lestrade called hoarsely.

"The pool!" Mycroft pointed. "Hurry!"

They worked at a furious pace to pull debris out of where Sherlock and John should have dived—the water had mostly evaporated in the explosion, and the remnants of the building now filled the empty space. At last, as the teams were arriving, John's black jacket appeared. "That's John!" Lestrade shouted unnecessarily, but Mycroft understood the emotional need for voicing it.

They worked even quicker, Mycroft's men aiding them. Lestrade carefully pulled John out and slung him around his shoulders. Mycroft lifted Sherlock out, barely pausing to take in his condition, and cradled him like a child. Neither man would surrender his burden to the professionals, so said professionals merely ensured that both men got back out quicker than they'd gotten in.

Outside, Lestrade gently lowered Dr. Watson to a stretcher. Blood matted his blond hair where something had collided with his skull, and burns and cuts covered his face and hands.

As Mycroft reluctantly lowered his brother to another stretcher, he found that Sherlock had fared similarly. Blood trickled sluggishly from the younger man's mouth, and the normally-pale skin beneath the burns was dead white.

"Get these men to the hospital!" Lestrade barked. A Scotland Yard official, he really had no say over the Secret Service, but there was no arguing with the authority in his voice. Mycroft was grateful for it, as he found he couldn't speak past the lump in his throat. "Let's go!"

Mycroft was climbing into the ambulance and Lestrade was following when a paramedic stopped the D.I. "Family?" the paramedic demanded.

Lestrade didn't miss a beat. "Yes."

In another time and place, Mycroft would have smirked, though he wouldn't have contradicted it aloud. Here and now, he didn't even react outwardly, though part of him felt absurdly grateful for knowing that Lestrade was coming with him.

The reason he was here at all was because he truly _was_ family to Sherlock, in that odd, surrogate way that defied the principle of blood being thicker than water.

As the ambulance blazed its way through the streets of London, Lestrade's dark eyes met Mycroft's light ones. And Mycroft saw that the older man was just as scared as he was.

Family, indeed.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

Cookies for whoever gets the chapter title. Give you a hint: 80's song.

For the life of me, I can't remember where (I've read so many different TGG endings) I've read one fic in which the pool evaporated from the heat. At first, I just blinked; but then I thought about it, and, eh, it made sense. At least, unless any of you folks know of a pool bombing in which the water didn't evaporate, in which case you'll just have to suspend your disbelief. ;D

I'm going to say right now that I really love _Sherlock_'s version of Lestrade. I think he's pretty faithful to the original (even if he's not small, lol), and I love the way he really is kind of like surrogate family to Sherlock. Which is a little bit how I write my Granada-influenced canon!Lestrade. Rupert Graves and Colin Jeavons, FTW!

Lastly, I've had this scene in my head for _months_—Mycroft and Lestrade pulling Sherlock and John out. This was a very visual chapter for me. And apologies for the brevity, but the chapters are going to stay short for now as I rush to get my Sherlock Holmes book finished. This thing just keeps getting longer! You're going to be seeing bits and pieces of "The Empty House," "A Scandal in Bohemia," and even "The Copper Beeches"!

Next Wednesday, Mycroft prepares to take action. Methinks next chapter will be a little bit longer. =)

_**Please review!**_


	4. Coming Together

**Author's Note:**

I would have gotten this chapter up _much_ sooner but for my 'Net connection going down. Such occurrences are always extremely painful.

Okay, so nobody tried to guess at the title of the last chapter. It's true that it's translated from German, but the song is very well-known. "99 Luftballons," by Nena. Bring back memories, anybody?

**To my reviewers:**

egaara: Thank you very much!

SabrinaPhynn: Pfft, the double-review confused me at first, lol. Yes. Yes, I believe you have stated how much you love Mycroft. ^_^ Mycroft is such an un-ambitious fellow that Sherlock probably really _is_ his world, whether in the show or in the Canon. _Another_ Brett? HOLY COW, WOMAN, HOW DO YOU _DO_ THAT? xDDD

KatieLou1: Thank you! (I'm having _lots_ of fun with Mycroft's POV.)

FuzzyDeMash: Ha-ha, well, here you go!

Moonspun Dragon: True, true! Thank you! (I did _not_ mean for that to rhyme, lol.)

KatieQ299: *grins* Thank you very much! (Anthea _had_ to be a major player, especially since Mycroft's the main character—she certainly doesn't get enough attention, and she's so fun to play with!)

**Disclaimer:** Mrs. Cecile Holmes with this particular name and characterization belongs to _moi_, though I'm willing to let people borrow her. =) Other than that, it's all either public domain or Moffat & Gatiss.

**==4. Coming Together==**

Mycroft followed Sherlock and Lestrade followed John as both injured men were wheeled into A&E. And when the door to the operating room shut Mycroft out, he stood there for several minutes, wishing to Heaven that he could have followed all the way.

There were a lot of things he was wishing, actually, and praying of a God he hadn't bothered with for a long time. At last, he moved away from the door, and pulled out his mobile.

A text from Anthea popped up. _Moriarty unaccounted for, presumed alive_.

Mycroft growled in the back of his throat, a surprisingly animalistic reaction for an upper-class gentleman. He hoped fervently that Moriarty was currently in as critical a condition as Sherlock.

_Is the team still together?_ He preferred old-fashioned phone-calls, but Anthea's no-nonsense brevity with words lent itself to text-messaging, and he respected that.

_Yes, sir._

_Good. Call up Andrews and tell him I need him and his team._

_You're involving the CIA, sir?_

Mycroft smiled—if peeling one's lips back to bare one's teeth could be called a smile. _MI5 is not the only agency that's been wanting to net Moriarty, my dear_. Fortunately, Andrews and his men were still in London.

_Yes, sir_.

That business taken care of, Mycroft steeled himself for a far more difficult task. He dialed up a familiar number and waited. At last, the other end picked up, and he heard a sleepy female voice. "Mycroft? What's wrong?"

That hint of her native French accent had returned, as it always did when she was tired. "Mummy, it's about Sherlock…"

* * *

><p>Cecile Vernet Holmes arrived with none of the drama that would have announced the appearance of either of her sons. She merely stepped into the waiting room and hurried over to her firstborn. "Have you heard anything yet?"<p>

Mycroft shook his head. "A gash on the head, a resulting concussion, and a host of cuts and burns of varying degrees, but I learned that in the ambulance. Nothing since."

Cecile nodded slowly. "Probably a coma, though."

"Probably."

Mummy had never had any color to speak of, just like Sherlock, but she looked very white just now.

"Mummy, you should sit down."

"Not just yet, My." She paced slowly, and Mycroft felt a little pain in his chest. He had taken after Dad, and Sherlock had taken after her. Her curls were silver rather than raven, now, but the aquiline features and blue-grey eyes were still there—and she still possessed that same elegant poise that veiled an independent spirit. Mycroft and his late father could be relied upon to follow routine; Cecile and Sherlock, on the other hand, were complete wildcards.

Mycroft knew he really wouldn't have it any other way.

"Mum, really."

"All right, all right." Cecile sank into a chair with a weary sigh. "Let me get this straight: he faced off a bomber and set off the bomb?"

"Very simplified, but yes."

She nodded again. "Okay…" She looked up to meet his eyes. "And you…?"

He met her gaze squarely, lifting one aristocratic eyebrow.

She closed her eyes and sank back into her chair, nodding once more. "Good," was all she said. One of the perks of being in the Holmes family was that very little ever needed to be said—they all could communicate as much and more with their body language as they could with English (and French) and simply by _knowing_ the other person inside-out.

Mycroft drummed his fingers on the back of a nearby chair, wishing for his umbrella. He supposed he had an attachment to the thing like Linus and his blanket from the Charlie Brown comics—never mind the hidden gun inside—but really… "Would you like some coffee?"

"Please," she murmured, her eyes still closed.

Mummy was strong. One of the strongest women he had ever known—and considering his two decades of experience with the various branches of British intelligence, that was saying a lot. He had only ever seen her cry twice in his life, though he had heard her a third time. The first had been the miscarriage of the baby conceived six years after Sherlock's birth; the second had been the night after Dad's funeral. The third had been after he'd left her in a waiting room in this very hospital, waiting for news of Sherlock after his overdose.

As he left the room, he expected a fourth and hopefully final time.

He was not disappointed.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

I have a very interesting back-story for Cecile in the _Sherlock_ universe, because when you think about how old a woman who is Mycroft's mother would have to be… Say that Sherlock is the same age as Benedict (born 1976), and he _is_ in this story. If Mycroft is 7 years older as in the Canon, he was born in 1969. "Mummy" would have to have been born in the '40s, quite possibly even during WWII. That opens up myriad possibilities! Somebody should write a fanfic in which Sherlock has to unravel some sort of WWII family mystery for his mother…

Next Friday, Mycroft suits up for action, and we also get a scene from Anthea's POV (fun!). Stay tuned!

_**Please review!**_


	5. The Stillness before the Storm

**Author's Note:**

Thank you to everyone who has favorited and/or subscribed! (Although, to those who have done so without dropping a review, if I may be so bold as to ask for one? Pretty please with sugar on it?)

**To my reviewers:**

egaara: Thank you very much! Actually, I've seen a fair amount of stories with "Mummy"—in a few, she's rather flat; in one, she's actually abusive; and in a few more, she's a wonderful woman. As for _moi_, she is… well, she's a heroine, plain and simple. =)

FuzzyDeMash: Heh, thank you! Mm, I'd like to—I really would! But I'm just _not_ getting any inspiration for it just yet (not to mention that it would take a lot of research for which I don't have time).

SabrinaPhynn: Thank you so much for the lovely review! (It could be that you're just aware of it, yeah—I mean, heh, one of the great American poets was a Holmes: Oliver Wendell _Holmes_. I just recalled him yesterday! …Then again, stranger things have happened: my family has had a particular van for the past few years, and it wasn't until we got the van that we started seeing the exact same van everywhere around us fairly often! But, the thing is, it's so distinctive, I can't believe that we could have _not_ noticed it before…) Hmm, y'know, I'm not sure I've ever _had_ Thai. What's it like?

**==5. The Stillness before the Storm==**

Having left Mummy to keep a vigil on Sherlock and Lestrade and on John, Mycroft was back in Thames House, suiting up. In the other room, he could hear Anthea and Andrews laying out the plan to their teams. As soon as he was finished preparing himself, he'd be gathering more MI5 operatives—this was a big operation, and though they needed to move swiftly, he also needed to ensure the safety of his people.

He looked himself over in a compact mirror and smirked infinitesimally—it had been a long time since he had suited up to go out on the field. He didn't miss the legwork—he was just fine with his lovely desk-job. But… he hadn't forgotten old routines.

And he hadn't forgotten James. He could never forget James.

* * *

><p>The briefing was over, and Anthea was back on her Blackberry when one of the Americans sidled over. She didn't remember his name—she agreed with Sherlock Holmes's theory of hard drives and memory storage—but she couldn't forget his hitting on her. That was the trade-off for being pretty—a girl got offers she didn't want. Of all the people who'd hit on her just this year (and since it was only early April, the year was still young), she'd probably pick Dr. Watson. Not that she was interested—she'd given him the cold shoulder twice, after all—but at least he was cute in a puppy-dogteddy-bear kind of way. He was genuinely decent and refreshingly honest, and that was a far cry from the vast majority of men she worked with on a regular basis.

"You know, it's funny," the American remarked in his Southern drawl. "This is probably the biggest thing we'll ever do in our _lives_, and it's totally off the record. We'll never get any credit for it—"

"If you wanted credit, you should've joined the police rather than the CIA," Anthea interrupted coolly.

"I'm not saying that I _want_ it," the man retorted. "I'm just saying, it's ironic."

"_C'est la vie_."

"Huh?"

Anthea allowed herself an eye-roll. He didn't even know one of the most common French phrases _ever_… was this guy for real? "Forget it." She turned her back on him and walked away, double-checking on her Blackberry to make sure that the government could function for twenty-four hours without Mycroft Holmes.

She looked up and saw the man himself speaking with Andrews. He looked completely alien in that black combat suit. She was four years younger than Sherlock; consequently, she'd arrived on the scene a few years too late to see Mycroft Holmes out on the field. She'd only ever known him in his armchair capacity.

She had first met him right after a mission. While the rest of her team was getting cleaned up, she remained fully-suited and dirty, typing up her report on her laptop. She also had a nicely-sized gash running across her cheek—it left a scar that had only finally disappeared a few months ago. She saw the umbrella tapping on the floor before she heard the quiet, cultured, mildly-arrogant voice. "I think you'll do."

She looked up, surprised, to see a tall, rather heavyset man staring down at her. "Beg pardon?" He flashed an ID card out from that Saville Row suit, and her eyes widened. "Sir?"

"Come with me, Miss Moran?" It was the politest order she'd ever heard in her life.

And here she was, five years later, watching that man prepare for his first active participation in an operation in—what, a decade? Longer?

He wasn't doing it for justice or for his country or for any high, ephemeral ideal. He was doing it for his brother. If only Sherlock—dear, lost little Sherlock—could see Mycroft now… Maybe, just maybe, he wouldn't despise his older brother anymore.

She felt a rush of admiration and sympathy for her boss, and she had to remind herself that he _was_ her boss. Not in any work situation anywhere in the world in any sort of occupation is one _ever_ to develop feelings for the person higher on the ladder.

In her case, _infinitely_ higher.

In the end, that knowledge didn't change a thing. It only meant that she wouldn't let him see it

And despite him being _Mycroft Holmes_, she could accomplish that pretty well.

**Author's Note:**

*hums* Won't apologize for that blatant, one-sided Anthea/Mycroft. Nope. It's just too cute, and there are just too few fics out there like that (one weird but cute platonic!friendship fic had Anthea's _real_ name as _Kate Middleton_—they _do_ look alike O.o). Besides, Mycroft is… different from the Canon. Similar, of course, but different. I mean, totally canonical Mycroft would probably never have dreamed of having a woman as a major assistant no matter what century he was in. And this Mycroft… he's certainly more dangerous and less ethical, but I also think he's a little more… _Human_ isn't the right word, but it's close. Do you know what I mean?

As to Anthea's age... would you believe I hit it on the nail without realizing it? The actress, Lisa McAllister, is actually four years younger than Benedict! I typed out that part of the chapter long before actually looking her up! (And she's Scottish, too—w00t!)

Next Monday, we cut back to the hospital with Cecile, Lestrade, and Sarah. Stay tuned!

_**Please review!**_


	6. This Side of Eternity, Part I

**Author's Note:**

A couple of swear words this time around. I should note that I've ALWAYS blanked out swearing before in my other fics; the only reason that I'm not _this_ time is that it's nothing you don't already hear in the actual show. I didn't particularly like doing it (I don't use that kind of language, myself), but it just turned out that way.

Thank you to everyone that has favorited!

**To my reviewers:**

egaara: Thank you, and glad you liked the Anthea/Mycroft!

Moonspun Dragon: *high-fives back* Yes. Yes, it is bad news. ^_^ And, no, Anthea/Mycroft isn't far-fetched at all! (Must have my ships!) "Involved" isn't bad, though, because he definitely is that (you can probably trace it to Sherlock's drug involvement). Thank you!

FuzzyDeMash: Hey, good eye! *evil chuckle* I give no spoilers, though!

SabrinaPhynn: Ahhh. Hmm, interesting—no shrimp for me, though, thanks. Allergies. ;D Lol, the "crack berry"? xDDD Thank you! (*refrains from making a good-natured crack on that last line* =D)

LoveIsSweetMisery: Thank you very much! Cecile is a very special character to me, and the fun thing about Mrs. Holmes is that you can do a lot with her and not get the dreaded label "Mary Sue" because, ha, she _has_ to be remarkable to have two sons like that! More of her in this chapter—hope you like!

**Disclaimer:** Mrs. Cecile Holmes with this particular name and characterization is mine, though you can borrow her if you ask nicely. =) _Just in Case You Ever Wonder_ belongs to Max Lucado. _Sarah, Plain and Tall_, the film, belongs to Hallmark. Beyond that, it's all either public domain or Moffat & Gatiss.

**==6. This Side of Eternity, Part I==**

"_Mrs. Holmes?"_

"_Yes, Doctor?"_

"_We would like you to come see your son. His condition has been stabilized, but I'm afraid, ma'am, he's in a coma."_

"…_Thank you, Doctor."_

Cecile Holmes shivered and pulled her cardigan tighter around her before stepping into the room. The figure on the bed was covered in bandages, and an oxygen mask lay over the face. She hated that mask, the _swoosh_ sound of the breathing, the steady _beeps_ of the heart monitor…

That was her _son_ there, underneath all that apparatus. She'd seen Sherlock hooked up to a heart monitor before, and that was in the aftermath of his overdose. She _had_ hoped never to see that again, yet here she was now.

She reached out and tentatively brushed her fingertips against the large bandage covering Sherlock's head, wishing she could smooth his curls back. "_Mon cher_?" she whispered. "_Mon petite chou? __**C'est mère**_."

He was so still. It wasn't right—Sherlock was _never_ still, hadn't been since he was very little.

"Sherlock, please." She lifted one bandaged hand and pressed it gently to her cheek. "Please come back to me, darling. I love you. I love you, Sherlock. Do you know just how much?"

On a special trip around the world that passed through the US, Cecile had found a certain children's book in a bookshop; though both her sons were long past the point of such books, she bought it. _Just in Case You Ever Wonder_, by Max Lucado. For some reason unknown even to her, she'd memorized the entire book. She found herself repeating it to Sherlock now.

_Long, long ago, God made a decision—_

_a very important decision…_

_one that I'm really glad He made._

_He made the decision to make you…_

_He made you in a very special way._

_He made your eyes so they would twinkle._

_He made your mouth so you could smile._

_He made your laugh so you could giggle._

_God made you like no one else._

_If you looked all over the world—in every city, in every house—there would be no one else like you…_

_no one with your eyes,_

_no one with your mouth,_

_no one with your laugh._

_You are very, very special…_

She recited it all to her son as tears obscured her vision and as she had to pause every so often to clear her throat of the lump in it.

_Dear God, please let my son live_.

* * *

><p>Geoffrey Lestrade found himself alone in a room with a woman he previously knew only from a blog, waiting on an injured man he'd known for barely two months. Life was weird like that.<p>

"I was just getting to know him," Dr. Sawyer murmured into the still air.

Poor woman. To be mixed up with Sherlock Holmes in any capacity was rough, but it had to be even worse to be the girlfriend of his flatmate/assistant/blogger/…friend? "I know," he said quietly.

"I'm sorry, sir. I don't mean to be…"

"It's okay, Doctor," he assured her. She had been holding up well for the past… how long had she been here? Thirteen hours? And he'd been here fourteen. Ugh, he needed more coffee… "Really. I… uh, I know what you're going through."

She glanced at him, and he noted that her eyes were still dry. A lot of women would be crying their makeup into a mess by now—she was either very detached from the situation, or she was really tough. From what he'd heard about her, he suspected the latter.

"My first fiancé… she was shot to death. We thought we'd gotten her to A&E in time; we thought she'd pull through. But, umm…" His voice trailed off, and he stared down at his clasped hands, abruptly fascinated with his wedding band.

"She was another cop?"

"Yeah." He ran a hand through his hair. "That was a long time ago. A few years later, I met another nice girl who was outside of my profession, and now we have four kids."

Dr. Sawyer smiled wanly. She wasn't what Lestrade would call _pretty_, but had her blue eyes not been highlighted by dark bags, he might have called her _cute_. He fleetingly remembered some American movie his wife liked… _Sarah, Plain and Tall_…

When the silence started to get deafening, Lestrade cleared his throat. "Hey, he'll wake up, okay?"

"If he wants to, he might."

Lestrade smirked. "He's too stubborn to give up. Has to be, living with Sherlock Holmes."

She gave a hiccupping laugh that was more like a sob. "Yeah."

The door to the waiting room burst open, and a blonde of average height came rushing in. "The woman at the counter told me to come here," she announced breathlessly. She wore blue jeans and a rumpled polo beneath her parka, and her chin-length, highlighted hair had obviously not been brushed. Lestrade quickly saw the resemblance to John Watson. "I'm Harry Watson, John's sister."

"Detective Inspector Lestrade," he offered, standing and extending his hand.

She shook it and said, "Guess you're the inspector from John's blog."

Lestrade cocked his head. "One of them, yes."

Harry looked over his shoulder at the woman sitting behind him. "And you're Sarah, John's girlfriend?"

"Uh, yeah," Dr. Sawyer said hesitantly. Lestrade could almost see a sign in the air flashing AWKWARD.

"Nice to meet you, sweetie," said Harry, and Lestrade realized that she bore a faint hint of a Scottish burr in her otherwise English accent. She turned back to him, saying, "So, where's my brother? I got this call that he's in the ICU because of a bomb…?"

"Yeah…" Lestrade ran a hand through his hair again. "He's still in critical condition…"

"He's in a coma," Dr. Sawyer supplied. She rose from her seat and brushed a hand across her face. "I can take you to the doctor who operated on him."

"Operated?" Harry echoed. "What needed operation? What the hell is wrong with my brother?"

"I don't know!" the younger woman snapped back. "I don't know all of it. He got kidnapped and strapped to a bomb, Sherlock managed to get the bomb off of him, and then it went off and they dove into a pool! All right? So now John's concussed with a _myriad_ of burns and lacerations, and he's in a coma! End of story!" Sarah stood mere inches from Harry, heaving from her outburst.

Lestrade was secretly glad she'd finally released her tension.

Harry's face was emotionless, and Lestrade wondered what was running through her mind. "All right," she said flatly. "All right. Can I go see my brother?"

Sarah looked like she wanted to slap Harriet Watson hard across the face. Instead, she said, "I'll take you to Dr. Hancock."

"Okay."

Both women left the room, and Lestrade all but collapsed into a chair, relieved. That... hadn't been fun. He figured that Sarah probably wasn't all too fond of Harry since John wasn't—the comments between brother and sister on the blog were civil enough, but Lestrade knew that John was still avoiding his younger sibling.

He released an explosive breath and dropped his face into his hands. What a mess.

* * *

><p>Several minutes later, Harriet Shaynee Watson found herself alone in a room with her little brother on a hospital bed, all manner of medical apparatus attached to and surrounding him that he could identify and she could not. "Johnny?" she said tentatively, taking a step forward.<p>

When no answer was forthcoming, she snagged a chair and pulled it over to the bedside. "Heeey," she said quietly, "it's Little Sis." She looked down and cleared her throat. "Umm, sorry I couldn't get here sooner. It was one thing after another on the way here, you know?"

She laughed uncertainly. "Golly, John, I haven't even gotten to meet Sherlock yet. You two have to get better so you can introduce me to him. Yeah, I know you don't want to, but, c'mon…" That last word ended in a choked sob.

"Okay, big brother, you know, it's scary seeing you like this. First there was the notification that you'd been wounded in Afghanistan, and then there was seeing you come back with that limp…" Leaning over, she grabbed his hand and held it gently but firmly, even as the bandages were dotted with saltwater. "You've gotta get better, okay, John? Just get better.

"All right, all right, I know what this is." She sat back up and wiped a hand across her eyes. "It's like the movies, right? This is the part where I tell you I'm sorry for being such a jerk, and I'll quit drinking heavy, and I'll be a good girl, and… _dammit_, John, you _have to be okay!_"

Harry lowered her head to the bed and cried.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

Okay, now that broke my heart a little, that last scene. Poor Harry (and Sarah… and Cecile…).

Error last time—I put the timing of TGG as late March, but, thanks to the BBC's pseudo-blog for John, it's actually the first week of April (the 6th is the date of the pool scene). Fixed now!

Also, before anybody gets on my case for making Harry John's _younger_ sister when canon!Watson has an _older_ sibling… Does anybody know how old Martin Freeman is? He was thirty-nine, last year. If we're going to say that the events of _Sherlock_ take place the same year they're aired and that the characters are the same ages as their actors (since the producers haven't said yet otherwise), then John would have been thirty-eight when he met Sherlock. And he specifies in the BBC blog that Harry is _thirty-six_.

Research. Gotta love it.

Also, _Shaynee_ is actually an Irish rather than a Scottish name, but, since John has a Celtic middle name, I wanted Harry to have one, too. Shaynee is actually a feminine version of _John_ (like _Sean_). I tried to find a Celtic feminine form of _James_ (_Hamish_ is the Scottish form of James), but no such luck.

Next Wednesday, the moment you've all been waiting for! Mycroft in action!

_**Please review!**_


	7. Retribution

**Author's Note:**

Ugh, nothing like getting up at the crack of dawn and updating _four_ fics and uploading a _new_ one. I'm getting tired just _thinking_ about it… I might have my coffee early.

Embarrassingly, there were some errors in the last chapter that are now fixed. And one thing I'd like to point out that I forgot to last time is the name I used for Lestrade: _Geoffrey_. I'm aware that, in the Sherlock universe, his name is supposed to be _Greg_, and I won't deny that he looks it. But, hey, this is AU, anyway, so one more little detail that doesn't even pop up in the show can't hurt. That particular name for canon!Lestrade originated with aragonite, btw, who's written _tons_ about the Yarders and has even published her own Sherlock Holmes ebook! Go check her out—totally worth your while!

**To my reviewers:**

k8ec: Thank you very much, and glad you like Cecile and Harry! Wow, kudos for attending to detail like that! I played the video, slowed it down, and tried taking some stills; but they turned out blurry and barely readable, and I couldn't seem to freeze the video to a non-blurry state. *pouts* Thank you for drawing my attention to that, though! (Although… heh, of the pair, _Benedict_ could believably pass for several years younger, but I don't really think _Martin_ could. He's really about the age I figured for him when I first watched the series.) High-five for uber-geekiness! =D

egaara: Thank you, and glad you like Mrs. Holmes so much! Well, in the Canon, Watson is right around 30, certainly no older—using Martin's age for John just worked out for me. Thank you very much!

Sabrina Phynn: Well, then, good eyes to you, too! ^_^ …Boring and mundane? This from the woman who regularly provides me with some of my most interesting and amusing reviews? *bear hug* My sympathies about the migraine—I get them every now and then, and, _man_, are they debilitating!

Moonspun Dragon: *facepalm* _Originally_ intentional, yes, but then I switched and forgot to fix it—it's fixed now, thanks. Thank you!

FuzzyDeMash: You're welcome! Yeah, basically—necessary chapter, though, as are its future sister chapters, because they're building up characterization.

**==7. Retribution==**

Moriarty was tracked to a remarkably cliché warehouse in the East End—Mycroft felt a sensation akin to grim amusement when he considered that not much had changed in the past hundred years. He also realized that the tracking was probably a little bit easier than it should have been, which meant that this was more than likely a trap. On the other hand, the men and women he'd assembled were the best of the best…

On the drive, he found himself praying that Sherlock and John would pull through. He'd had no word from Mummy, Lestrade, or Sarah before setting out, and now he was running radio silence.

Long night ahead.

* * *

><p>James Richard Moriarty had three weaknesses: overconfidence, instability, and technology. It was that last factor that Mycroft would be using tonight against him. James was a technocrat. He obsessed over modems, mobiles, laptops, PDAs, iPads… If it contained wires and microchips, he was all over it. And despite being born two decades before the debut of the Internet, James just couldn't live without technology any more.<p>

Tonight, he would have to do so.

The teams were prepared to work independently of electricity, their only technology being their guns, torches, and lead-protected radios. Thus, as soon as they'd parked mere meters from the warehouse, Mycroft pulled out tonight's weapon of choice. Stared at it for a moment. Smirked. Switched it on.

The powerful Electro-Magnetic Pulse fried the working circuitry of the warehouse, and the teams moved in immediately. Firefights broke out, and Mycroft found himself ducking behind cover for the first time in years. Absurdly, it felt _great_, and he empathized with Sherlock and John's addiction to adrenaline. Anthea was crouched next to him, taking down Moriarty's men with deadly precision.

Mycroft thumbed on his radio and said, "Andrews, I'm going in!"

"Roger that. Careful, Holmes!"

"Will do." He returned the radio to his belt and turned to his assistant. "Annie, let's go!" He wasn't sure why he'd given her that nickname, but, for some reason, she didn't mind it.

"Sir!" They began darting from cover to cover, working their way inward and picking off shooters as they went. Approximately five minutes after their arrival, the lights flickered to life overhead. The backup generator had been put into commission.

Twenty-three seconds later, the lights died again. Andrews had just used his own EMP.

Mycroft and Anthea allowed themselves the luxury of trading small smiles of relief.

Nearly half an hour after their arrival, Mycroft at last burst into the right office, Anthea remaining outside to stand guard. He'd barely registered James sitting behind a desk before he ducked a shot from the obligatory bodyguard. He fired his own gun, and the man went down.

"Mike!" James cried delightedly, not seeming to notice the death of his own bodyguard. "How absolutely _lovely_ to see you again! What's it been—five years?"

"Six," Mycroft corrected, that one word colder than the Antarctic. "Six years too soon."

James shrugged one shoulder, spreading his left palm. "Your fault, m'dear—not mine." Mycroft noted with sadistic satisfaction that the man's face was a patchwork of bandages, his hands were similarly mummified, and his right arm hung limply in a sling. _Well done, brother mine_.

"Oh, I think the blame very much lies with you." Leaning casually on his umbrella (he'd managed to keep it with him on the trip through the warehouse), he brought his pistol to bear on James's chest. Very deliberately, the safety _clicked!_ off.

James cocked an arrogant eyebrow. "And where's that doll of an assistant you have, mm?" he drawled, blatantly ignoring the gun pointed at his heart. "Tragic if a pretty little thing like her were damaged."

Things could not have worked out better had they been enacting a Saturday morning cartoon. Four shots sounded just outside the room, and a woman fell into the room, dead. Anthea poked her head into the room above the body. "Sorry about that, sir." She smiled sardonically at James and blew a little kiss before disappearing again.

Mycroft coughed. "You were saying, James?"

Moriarty's eyes narrowed at last. "_Jim_, Mike. You know how I despise my awfully common name."

"As if _Jim_ is any better."

Moriarty eyed the gun. "You won't do it," he said at last.

Mycroft merely cocked an eyebrow in mocking imitation. "Really."

"Uh-huh." James gave him a _come-on_ look. "If you do, Sherlock will be whining about it forever."

"If he recovers. Which is still in the 'if' stage. And I have _you_ to thank for that, _James_." Mycroft found it difficult to keep his infamous composure and not bite off every word as it left his mouth.

James shrugged one-shouldered again, but Mycroft noted his dark eyes were riveted to the gun. "If you play with fire, you're going to get burned. Sherlock's a smart boy—he knows that as well as anybody else."

Mycroft felt as if his own face belonged on a statue rather than a human being, so stony did it feel. "_You_ were the one playing with fire, James. I warned you to stay away from him."

"We clashed."

"And _you_ hired that cabbie. _And_ started this ridiculous game of yours with the five pips. If you had done neither, I wouldn't have faulted you." He felt a perverse smile tug at his lips. "As it is… And anyway, I do owe you."

"You really don't let go, do you? You're as obsessive as your little brother."

"I don't _forget_. You know that."

"Eidetic memory—who could forget _that_?"

"I'm afraid MI5 won't tolerate one of its best former operatives running around playing criminal mastermind any longer."

"MI5 won't—or _you_ won't?"

Mycroft felt that smile again. "Both."

"You're really going to shoot me," James marveled.

"Yes."

"Good luck with the fallout." James's own face had hardened, and Mycroft knew…

"Thank you."

Two shots rang out, almost simultaneously. Mycroft slumped to the floor with a muttered curse, clutching his left thigh. Fire blazed through it.

And James was lying on the floor, his dark eyes wide as his own blood pooled around him from the gaping hole in his chest.

"You shouldn't have doubted me, James," Mycroft grunted, tapping his umbrella against the floor in irritation.

"Sir!" Anthea showed back up in the doorway, fear written in her lovely features.

"Now, if you'll excuse me," Mycroft continued, pressing a handkerchief to his wound, "I have my brother to look in on."

James Moriarty spat out a curse, and the dark eyes went glassy.

Mycroft breathed a sigh of relief. "Sir," Anthea said in a surprisingly motherly tone, the kind that was concerned and afraid and exasperated all at once. She bent down and slowly helped Mycroft back to a standing position. He could put absolutely no weight on his left leg and found himself draped over his thankfully tall and strong assistant.

"Hospital," he gasped. His thigh was _literally_ hurting like blazes. But before Anthea moved him out of the room, he took one final glance at the dead man. No regrets there. Absolutely none.

He abruptly felt very, very tired as Anthea helped him into the hallway. And suddenly, said hallway was alive with gunfire.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

There's always _something_. *sighs* Methinks our favorite governmental coupl—I mean, _duo_—aren't out in the clear, yet. And in case you're wondering about Mycroft's wound, Jim shot him from under the desk—dirty, yes, but effective.

EMP really would be the best way to take out Moriarty, because he really does use it as a crutch. You still have guns to contend with, but no bombs, no security cams, no mobiles, zilch. Oh, and yes, I gave him a middle name. I also have middle names for Mycroft and Sherlock. ^_^

Btw, anybody see now what this story is somewhat modeled after?

Next Friday, a look at Sherlock's and John's pasts.

_**Please review!**_


	8. This Side of Eternity, Part II

**Author's Note:**

I am _so_ sorry that I missed posting yesterday! I ran out of time to prep the chapter… =( Note to self: cannot put up more than 2 updates in the same morning—leads to problems.

Oh, and when I asked last time if anybody knew what this fic is modelled after… only after another fic. My own. =D "Jupiter's Retribution," a short one-shot—most of the dialogue between Mycroft and Jim in that story reappeared in the previous chapter.

**To my reviewers:**

egaara: Mycroft is indeed awesome! =D Thank you!

SabrinaPhynn: Not Canon, darlin', sorry *points above*. Glad you like "Annie," and y'know what? I would have understood the joke even if you hadn't done the parentheses! =D Then again, probably not many people my age _would_ know… Ooo, testy!Mycroft scares me. ^_^ Aww, I've had some very hot days over where I live, too—and the A/C is malfunctioning. Ai-yi-yi.

Moonspun Dragon: Indeed, "couple" does! ^_^ Thank you!

Isilarma: Thank you very much! I _love_ writing Mycroft, and I'm really loving writing him and Anthea.

FuzzyDeMash: Lol, here you go! =)

northerlywind: Oh, okay—thank you for the French nitpick! *blushes* I think you can tell it's not one of my languages… Anyway, glad you enjoy all the Mycroft! =D

atheist: Um, thank you!

**==8. This Side of Eternity, Part II==**

When he was little, he would fall asleep facing his window, because he wanted the stars to be the last thing he saw at night.

There were so many of them, and they were so beautiful, and he used to connect them with imaginary lines like dot-to-dots. The pictures he created were nothing like the constellations he learned about later in school, so he ignored those established pictures. His own were so much better.

His first movie in the theater was _Star Wars: The Empire Strikes Back_, and he loved the idea of being able to fly through the stars like Han Solo and Luke Skywalker. He wanted to become an astronaut so that he could see if _he_ could make it through an asteroid field—wouldn't that be fun?

Of course, as he grew older, his career ambitions changed, and, even though he ignored the fact the earth revolved around the sun, he never completely forgot his first love.

And, when he was little, Mycroft was his hero.

Mycroft was everything he wanted to be when he grew up—sharp, perfect memory, scheming, strong, brave.

When Sherlock was nine, he caught his cousin Ronald being mean to Ronald's little sister Agnes. Appalled at that treatment—because big brothers are supposed to be _good_ to their younger siblings—Sherlock laid into Ronald with his tongue and gave him a good dressing-down. The problem lay in the fact that Ronald was six years Sherlock's senior, and he easily picked up the little boy, pinned him to the wall, and told him to mind his own business or else.

Mycroft appeared out of nowhere and landed a _beeeyootiful_ punch on Ronald's nose. Very soon after, he began to teach Sherlock hand-to-hand combat. Sherlock enjoyed tussling with Big Brother for the next five years, until The Day His World Fell Apart.

Dad wasn't often around because he worked in London for the government; the times that he came home, though, were the best. Dad was smart and he knew a lot and he always answered Sherlock's questions about anything and everything, and if he didn't know the answer, he would look it up.

Sherlock's violin was Mummy's; Sherlock's chemistry set was Dad's. From them, he'd inherited a fantastic mix of science and art, and he knew that even as a young boy.

Little Sherlock was pretty sure he didn't love Mummy more than he did Dad, but he also knew that he was much closer to Mummy. He was just so much like her. One of their favorite things to do together was to play their violins, and that was the best thing ever.

He still missed that closeness they'd lost, and in those rare moments that he was completely honest with himself, he knew that it was mostly his fault.

So here he was, stuck in, well, limbo? Yeees, basically. He wasn't conscious, but he wasn't actually _dreaming_, either. He was just… remembering. Remembering his father's rich voice, his mother's warm embrace, his brother's genuine laugh.

He missed it all.

So much for being a sociopath.

He wondered why he was here… why couldn't he remember? He remembered water… a weird, high-pitched voice… and being scared and… oh. _Oh_.

He remembered John trapped in a Semtex vest.

Dear God, he had _set off the bomb_.

Where was Moriarty now? Where was John? Why couldn't he wake up? Was he dead? All right, that was ridiculous—death was either Heaven, Hell, or the complete cessation of existence. Limbo after death was just plain illogical. And he most definitely was not in any of the aforementioned three.

_When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains_…

A coma.

He was in a coma.

* * *

><p>One terrible event in their teen years led them to where they were now. John still shuddered to think of it.<p>

His little sister, at the age of fourteen, had been raped.

He remembered the relentless sobbing, her need to cling to him or their parents, the nightmares and flashbacks. He remembered the day she found out that the trauma hadn't stopped a pregnancy from happening. He remembered when, six months into her pregnancy, the labor started prematurely. He remembered standing on the other side of the glass, watching his little niece breath with the assistance of machines. He remembered the night Harry and his parents had decided to give the baby up for adoption, and he remembered Harry's fresh grief when she had to let her child go.

He remembered his own tears, in the middle of the night in the privacy of his bedroom.

He decided that, instead of going into professional rugby as he had been seriously considering, he wanted to be a doctor. He wanted to save lives the way that doctor had saved his niece's life.

But where his life started looking brighter, Harry's started looking darker. While all the other girls her age were going out with boys, Harry almost stopped having anything to do with the male population altogether—the only boys she ever spoke with anymore were her brother and their cousins. She fell into depression and started drinking, and getting into trouble for doing so. She went to college to learn to be a beautician, of all things, and the next thing John knew, he was hearing gushing praise about her dorm-mate, Clara.

The adoration was mutual, and their relationship eventually got to be what one could only call romantic. John had never before given homosexuality a second thought, but, if it kept his sister happy, out of trouble, and away from liquor, he guessed he could live with it. His parents were thrown for a loop with their daughter's new preference; even so, though they weren't really all too happy about it, they didn't disown Harry. John was grateful for that.

After messing around with their relationship for years, Harry and Clara finally decided to get married. It was mere months before John was deployed to the Middle East, and he almost didn't make it for the wedding. Their parents weren't there, but not out of choice—both had been killed in a car accident two years earlier.

Then John was shipped out to Afghanistan. He saw horrible things out there, things that people who were safely far away and content with their own lives and had never once been out on the front… just couldn't really understand. He doubted whether even Sherlock could fully understand.

_Sherlock_.

Good grief, the _bomb_.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

…Eesh, yes, cute stuff, then heavy stuff. Poor John and Harry! And poor Sherlock!

(If Sherlock had been born in 1976—yes, still using actors' ages even if it _is_ dumb =/—he would have been four when _Empire Strikes Back_ was released into theaters. ^_^)

We'll get more of Sherlock's rather complicated history next week. And I hope to have an update on this story Monday or, if failing that, Wednesday. Wednesday for sure. We cut back to Mycroft and Anthea. Always remember Murphy's law: whatever can go wrong, will. =P

_**Please review!**_


	9. Anything That Can Go Wrong Will

**Author's Note:**

Wow, just _barely_ made it! Methinks that this shall not get another update until Monday—sorry about that!

Warning for brief language.

**To my reviewers:**

FuzzyDeMash: Thanks!

Moonspun Dragon: Actually, I _love_ Murphy's law, especially the last line: "Murphy was an optimist." ROFL Thank you!

SabrinaPhynn: Yeah, I guess they are. Just wait 'til you read _this_ chapter, though… Sherlock would _have_ to sound like himself while in a coma—it's just too weird to think of him not! =) Anyway, thank you! Aww, there's nothing cuter (or more peaceful) than little people sleeping!

TheLadyLilith: …Um, I'm guessing that "never forget James" is a line from something, and I hit upon it accidentally. =D

egaara: Thank you! =)

Isilarma: Thank you very much!

**==9. Anything That Can Go Wrong Will==**

Anthea dropped to the floor, taking her boss with her. Mycroft gave a small cry of pain, and she uncharacteristically loosed a string of expletives even as she moved him up against the wall. "Carter, get this hallway cleared!" she shouted to one of the nearby MI5 operatives, exchanging fire with Moriarty's men. "Mr. Holmes needs to get to the hospital!"

Carter swore and turned to a subordinate, apparently detailing a strategy that Anthea couldn't hear. She crouched on the floor beside Mycroft, who was readying his umbrella to fire. "Sir?"

"I'll be fine," he ground out. But he was quite obviously in a lot of pain, and that wound was bleeding profusely. It was too near the femoral artery for comfort.

"Forget the gun, sir!" Anthea cried, exasperated, loading another clip into her pistol even as she spoke. "Start putting pressure on that leg, or you'll bleed to death." She punctuated her order with several shots of her gun.

Mycroft said nothing, but lifted the bloody umbrella and fired at a window behind Moriarty's men. The glass exploded, showering the criminals with sharp fragments. It didn't stop enemy fire, but it gave the MI5 a significant advantage. Mycroft threw a triumphant smirk at his PA before setting the umbrella down and pressing his fingers to his left thigh, above the wound.

Anthea growled in exasperation and continued to fire. Mycroft was far too much like his little brother at times, and the most irritating part of it was that she and their mother seemed to be the only two people in the _world_ who knew it.

* * *

><p>He had once wondered what it would feel like to have the life literally draining out of him. He now had the chance to find out, for the crimson steadily seeping from the hole in his thigh was carrying his energy with it. If the bleeding didn't stop or slow down soon, he <em>would<em> die.

They needed to get out of this hallway.

Enemy reinforcements had arrived, and the other teams were apparently just as bogged down.

He was starting to feel dizzy and disembodied, as if he was merely a spectator watching someone else's life-force drain away. Some distant part of his formidable brain recognized that shock was setting in. With effort, he focused his gaze on his PA.

Anthea was magnificent, one of the best. Her family had a long history with the military, and she had certainly inherited the skills of her predecessors. He watched her fire and duck and fire and duck with a fluid grace few people could match, but, even as he watched, he realized she was slowing and tiring. She had not done this kind of pitched battle in years…

She fell back with a cry, clutching her right shoulder.

"Annie!"

"I'm okay!" She turned to meet his gaze. "Really, sir!" She removed her hand to reveal a graze wound.

Mycroft swore. "Where's Andrews?"

Anthea shook her head wordlessly, shifting her gun to her left hand and continuing to fire.

Mycroft swore again. "He'd better… get here… _soon_…"

"Sir?"

He suddenly found it difficult to stay upright and keep his eyes open. "I… Ann…"

"Sir! Hold on, sir!"

"Ann…"

She shook him, and she didn't do it gently. "Don't faint, sir! Come on, _dammit_, stay awake!"

He blinked drowsily. "Try… ing…"

"Don't you _dare_!" she hissed. "_You have to stay awake!_"

"Annie…"

The last thing he remembered was her frightened dark eyes.

Oblivion was so very welcome.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

Ohhhh, _golly_, things just keep getting worse. I pity Cecile. Next up… I'll get back with you on that. Monday. ^_^

_**Please review!**_


	10. The Woman

**Author's Note:**

If you angst it, they will come…

I'm afraid I've got bad news, peeps. Updating this is getting to be something of a burden on my time when I've got a lot on my plate (and most of it writing). So, what I'm going to do is standardize my updates to _once a week_, on Mondays. Sorry to do this to y'all, but I really have to.

Also, a warning—we already know that this story is very much AU. AU to Season 2, AU in matters of ages, AU in Lestrade's given name. I'm going to take it one step further in this chapter, and we'll see what you make of it. I'll only say beforehand that it's _not_ an idea original to me—I think I read it on a forum somewhere…

**To my reviewers:**

SabrinaPhynn: Scottish play? …No problem; understand. Btw, I think you just might take a special interest in this chapter… ^_^

TheGirlWhoSpeaksPolari: Ha-ha, sorry it took this long—and even sorrier that it'll be longer 'til the next update! Thank you for the breathless anticipation, though!

egaara: Eh-heh, I'm afraid Mycroft doesn't… quite… feature… in this chapter… *starts to sink beneath desk* More like… next week?

Moonspun Dragon: Well, now, that depends on what you think she's hinting at, doesn't it? =D *whistles innocently*

Isilarma: Thank you very much! Feedback on my Mycroft/Anthea dynamics is very much appreciated!

FuzzyDeMash: Thank you for understanding! =) Writing a poor-quality chapter is the _last_ thing I want; that being said, I'm a little nervous that this one doesn't totally come up to par…

Anon. Lurker: Thank you very much! For me, the really fun part of this story is going in and fleshing out the secondary characters—they're all awesome! …And I thought I edited that chapter already… I'll check into it, thanks.

xkittybluex: Thank you! So glad that you and so many others like Cecile so much!

arwenae: Ha-ha, thank you very much! =)

**==10. The Woman==**

Lestrade had the fleeting thought that, for man who claimed aversion towards the feminine species, Sherlock Holmes had an awful lot of women in his life. There was his mum, his landlady, his brother's PA, his flat mate's girlfriend, and…

"Geoff! Thank God you're still here!"

Molly Hooper.

"Where's Sherlock? Has there been any improvement?"

Lestrade winced and shook his head. "He and John are still down for the count."

Molly swore and flopped down exhaustedly into a chair. "I have been on pins and needles all day," she sighed, her voice slipping back and forth between British and American accents. She had to be really tired if she was doing that—it was a potentially dangerous slip-up. "I was only apprised of the situation this morning _after_ I got to work, and, even then, nobody saw fit to tell me about Mycroft's raid on Moriarty."

Her eyebrows knitted together. "I wanted to be there, too—the look on Jim's face when he realized just _whom_ he'd been messing with would have been priceless."

Lestrade chuckled half-heartedly. "Sounds like you know more about this whole mess than I do."

She smiled ruefully at him. "Sorry. Didn't mean to make you feel out of the loop. I'm just… frustrated."

"I'll bet." He sympathized fully with her. "Has to be rough, having your charge getting himself almost killed three times in as many months."

"More than that," she said absently, pulling out her Blackberry and checking something on it. Seemingly satisfied, she flipped it closed and stuffed it back into her purse. "Nineteen," she announced.

"_Nineteen?_"

"It's been a slow three months," she said wryly.

Lestrade laughed in disbelief and shook his head. "That's insane."

"That's Sherlock for you." She drummed her fingers on her purse in irritation. "Of course, I don't know how I'm expected to play bodyguard to him if I'm stuck with a job in a morgue as a cover story! And because the CI—_my_ _employers_—see fit to leave me out of the loop, I didn't even know that the fairly recent IT guy was a freaking criminal mastermind!"

Lestrade winced in sympathy. "Quit your job?"

"Well, then I'd have to find another…"

"You could _marry_ him," Lestrade grinned. She nearly choked in surprise. "You'd have an excuse to hang around."

"Ha, _no_. I won't deny that there's times I've daydreamed about it, but a) Sherlock would never go for it, and b) he'd drive me nuts. If John can live with him, more power to him—I don't think I'm that strong."

"I think you are," Lestrade countered, quietly and seriously. She looked up, startled. "For starters, there's your job—no, both your jobs. You don't weaklings for either one. Second… well, I've _seen_ the way Sherlock looks at you when you're not playing your role. He admires your intelligence and acting abilities, and not just _anybody_ earns the admiration of Sherlock bloody Holmes."

She gave him a small smile, one that looked just slightly watery. "Thanks."

"Hey, he's going to be okay, all right? He's going to be okay."

She looked down. "You don't know that."

He exhaled explosively. "Yeah, I do. Sherlock's too stubborn to let a bomb get the better of him… _c'mon_, you're his _bodyguard_, for heaven's sakes—you've gotta know that better than anyone else!"

She didn't look up.

Normally, he wouldn't be this forward with someone from an intelligence agency, be they British or American—they ranked above him in the pecking order. But even people in intelligence agencies were just that: _people_. He took the chair beside her and draped his arm over her slender shoulders. Golly, she felt so will-o-th'-wisp, and yet she was so strong, physically and emotionally.

She didn't shrink away from the contact.

"It's okay, Molly," he murmured. "It's okay to let it out."

She shook her head and mumbled something.

"Beg pardon?"

"Irene," she said, louder.

"That's your real name?"

She nodded.

"I like it. It's pretty. Prettier than…" Oops.

"Prettier than Molly?" she finished dryly, flashing him a brief smile that didn't reach her amber eyes. "That's kinda the point. Molly Hooper is a boring name for a boring person, easily overlooked by everybody but the sociopath that ostensibly flirts with her to get access to corpses." She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "It works."

Lestrade shook his head. "You and Sherlock really take this acting thing pretty deep."

"Yeah."

He stood. "Irene… just make sure it doesn't go so deep… that you lose yourself, okay?" He left the waiting room before she could reply, headed for Sherlock's room. If he recalled correctly, Sherlock had been in worse condition than John…

He rapped softly on the door. A few moments later, it opened quietly, revealing the elegant features of Cecile Holmes. "Detective Inspector," she murmured in greeting.

"Mrs. Holmes," he nodded. "Any change?"

She shook her head. "I've been talking to him… for a long time…" She sighed. "I have to believe it's getting through to him, somehow."

"I've heard that it does."

"Do you… have… evi-denssss…"

Cecile spun around at the weak voice. "_Sherlock!_"

"Dear God!"

The amateur detective's grey-blue eyes were barely open, but they tracked his mother's movements as she ran from the doorway back to his bedside. "Oh, Sherlock!"

"Mummy…"

"_Yes!_" Lestrade hissed, pumping his fist in the air. "I… I'll be right back!" He dashed back down the hall towards the waiting room, weaving through irritated visitors and hospital personnel alike. He burst into the waiting room and made Molly jump in surprise. "He's awake!" he grinned broadly.

"_What?_"

"I told you he'd make it!"

Molly whooped and threw her arms around him, then pulled back in mortification. "Sorry!"

He just laughed.

"So he's gonna be okay?" All trace of her British inflection was gone.

"Yes…" He smiled thoughtfully. "Yes, I think so."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

As I said before, I did _not_ come up with the idea of Molly being Irene Adler! I read it in a forum (or was it maybe an author's note?) and thought it was a weird idea, but it grew on me. And while writing this, I wanted to do something with it.

Plus, I have to say that I am SICK AND TIRED of Irene being made out to be a criminal! Let's get one thing straight: the real, CANONICAL Irene _Norton_ was _not_ a criminal. Remember that letter she left Holmes in "A Scandal in Bohemia"?

_As to the photograph, your client may rest in peace. I love and am loved by a better man than he. The King may do what he will without hindrance from one whom he has cruelly wronged. I keep it only to safeguard myself, and to preserve a weapon which will always secure me from any steps which he might take in the future._

It's like an O. Henry story—suddenly, the tables are turned at the end, and just maybe it's the King who's the real bad guy of the tale. Anything further criminal added to Irene's name is mere fanon and nothing more—and unjust fanon, at that *glares at Guy Ritchie*. Mrs. Norton has a noble spirit.

Now, I'm not exactly supporting the CIA here—or MI5, for that matter. They do things that… I don't particularly care for. But if you're on Sherlock's side, you're on the right side, right? And Irene Adler, a.k.a. Molly Hooper, is watching over Sherlock Holmes to the best of her ability.

/end rant

And, yes, Sherlock's woken up. But we still have John, Mycroft, and Anthea unaccounted for. =) Yes, I'm evil, thank you very much. …Okay, okay, don't worry—next week, we'll get Anthea's POV.

_**Please review!**_


	11. This Side of Eternity, Part III

**Author's Note:**

Ack, more bad news. Real life got even crazier for me last week, so I cannot guarantee a chapter next week beyond a shadow of a doubt. I will do my best to get it up next Monday, but I can't promise. *holds head* Ai-yi-yi-yi-yi…

Oh, and so glad you guys like Molly being Irene! Even though it's totally non-con, I really like the idea. =)

Aaaand… thank you to everybody that has favorited! This is my most-favorited and subscribed fic of all time, at **19** faves and **36** subscriptions!

**To my reviewers:**

egaara: Thank you! *blushes* Thank you very much for all your kind words! =)

personofnoconcern3000: 'Tis okay—thank you for reviewing now! Ha-ha, go ahead and take the Molly/Irene/bodyguard idea if you want—it's up for grabs! (Actually, it'd be really awesome to see somebody explore this idea in-depth!) Thank you!

Moonspun Dragon: Ahhh! *is tackled* Eh, if I was Molly, I'd still hang around him, too—I wouldn't take so much abuse in silence, mind you, but I'd still stick around. =) Thank you!

Isilarma: Thank you! Ah, I'd intended on doing more Anthea/Mycroft, but it turned out to be… not so much in this chapter. =( Oh well, more will come soon, I promise—I can't do without it!

Fiji Dreamer: Thank you! I hope the BBC makes Irene a singer, too.

LoveIsSweetMisery: Never fear—all will be explained in time! Thank you so very much! *blushes*

Sabrina Phynn: *giggles at first paragraph* Hey, Mycroft is my pet, too—him and Sherlock (although I think especially Mycroft in this version ^_^). Aww, my condolences for your loss. Thanks for the praise!

DC-JellyBean's: Thank you! Ah, an Irene fan. =)

**==11. This Side of Eternity, Part III==**

"Carter, I'm _going_. Either come with me or cover me, but I'm going _now_."

"Okay, we're moving out!"

_God don't let him die God don't let him die God don't let him die_…

When at last they were outside and could lower Mycroft Holmes onto a stretcher, she nearly sobbed with relief as the paramedics took over. Nobody bothered asking her if she was family as she climbed into the ambulance—the look in her stormy eyes said it all.

"Tell me he's going to be okay," she said quietly.

"He's lost a lot of blood, ma'am."

"Will a transfusion save him?"

"It's possible."

Janet "Anthea" Moran looked up to meet the medic's eye. "This man's brother is also comatose for similar reasons. I don't want their mother to lose both her children tonight."

The medic nodded in understanding. "She won't."

"Johnny, you'll never guess what! Sherlock woke up!"

No response. Not even the faintest twitch of an eyelid.

"Oh, come _on_, John! Sherlock's asking for you! He's worried! You're _not_ going to make me go in there and tell him that you're still out of it, are you?"

A beat.

"You are." Harry growled her frustration. "Wake _up_, already, you idiot—you're scaring me!" She felt the irrational urge to stomp over to his bedside, grab him by the shoulders, and shake him.

Hard.

"Okay, that _does_ it, John Hamish Watson! You are going to wake up right _now_, or I _swear_ I will go out and get myself so stone drunk, it'll kill me!"

Two beats.

"I mean it!"

Still no response.

Biting back her lip—because she was not going to cry again, nope, not a chance—she raked both hands through her hair and gave a frustrated growl. "John, this is getting ridiculous. I feel like I'm talking to a wall."

She took a seat beside the bed again and sighed. "Okay, you want it straight? Why Harry and I broke up, why I started drinking heavily again?" She exhaled explosively, running a hand through her severely messed-up hair once more. "All right, I'll tell you. And I want you to _listen_, okay? Don't tune me out.

"It happened while you were still in Afghanistan. I met my daughter by accident—she was twenty, getting her hair done in the beauty parlor—and we started to get to know each other. She didn't even know it was me… dear God, she didn't even know…

"John? John, she… she died…"

Fact: he was in the hospital.

Fact: he was _incapacitated_ in the hospital.

Fact: he had not yet seen John.

Fact: he had asked about John, and people were avoiding the subject, Mummy included.

Fact: John had been with him when he had set off the bomb.

Conclusion: John must be in critical condition, and the doctors were unsure if he'd pull through.

Reaction…

"What the _hell_ is wrong with John Watson? Mummy, I don't _care_ about hurting myself—I want to know _now_."

He'd never seen his mother look so old before as she sat on the edge of his bed. "Sherlock…" She rubbed at her eyes tiredly with the back of her hand, and he felt a brief twinge of guilt. "John is in the ICU, too, and… he's been in a coma, like you. He just hasn't woken up yet."

"And there's a chance that he won't."

She didn't speak.

"_Mummy_. There's a chance that he _won't_."

"Yes," she whispered.

He felt himself melt into the covers. "Good god."

She shot him a mildly disapproving look.

"Sorry."

"No, you're not," she murmured.

He frowned, then discovered that the simple expression hurt. "Something's wrong—more than John's coma. You only get that look on your face when it's Mycroft or I in trouble, and… Oh." He pressed his lips together. "Great, what's Mr. British Government gotten himself into now?"

She turned the full force of her blue-grey eyes on him, and he suddenly remembered that she was the only person in the world who could make him squirm. "Sherlock, _your brother_ has gone out on a field mission, and I've heard absolutely _nothing_ from him or Anthea since they neared their destination. Three hours ago."

"Oh," Sherlock said in a small voice, feeling almost ten years old again. He cleared his throat and winced at the twinge of pain that accompanied the action. "Mum, relax," he said as gently as possible. "I hate to say it, but My and Ann are the best of the best. I'm _sure_ they'll be okay, all right?" His forehead creased beneath the bandages. "I'm more worried about John at the moment. I guess there's no way I can go see him."

She shook her head. "You're in no shape even to get into a wheelchair, sweetheart. Sorry."

He nodded slowly. After a few minutes, he spoke up again, somewhat timidly. "You've been praying?"

She smiled tiredly. "What do you think?"

He managed to smile a little bit without it hurting. She bent forward and brushed her lips across his eyelids. "Go back to sleep, Sherlock," she murmured. "You need it."

XXX

**Anthea:** mission accomplished. coming to hospital.

**Irene:** moriarty's dead?

**Anthea:** affirmative

**Irene:** rats. let me do it next time.

**Anthea:** mycroft did it.

**Irene:** ahhh

**Anthea:** how are sherlock and john?

**Irene:** sherlock's awake and okay; john is still out. i'm worried.

**Anthea:** lovely

**Irene:** ?

**Anthea:** don't tell cecile yet, but mycroft's wounded

**Irene:** is it bad?

**Anthea:** he's lost a lot of blood.

**Anthea:** yes, Irene, it's very bad.

**Irene:** #$!&*%

**Anthea:** ditto

**Irene:** if mycroft or john die, sherlock's gonna kill someone.

**Anthea:** …

**Irene:** it'll be okay, hon. i know it. it'll be okay.

**Author's Note:**

Text messages. As soon as I have time, I'm going to have to write an Anthea-and-Molly/Irene story—y'know, the women that work with the Brothers Holmes. =) Can you imagine what the conversation would be like?

Writing Sherlock awake was… interesting, to say the least. I'm intimately familiar with Canon!Sherlock, but modern!Sherlock… he's another story. I don't know him nearly as well. It'll be interesting, getting to know him.

Next week… well, if I can even _make_ it… it'll be the beginning of the end. Things'll start winding down. =) Of course, there's still some things unresolved… ^_^

_**Please review!**_


	12. Between Hope and Fear

**IMPORTANT NOTE:**

To all you fans of the Canon…

Between 2pm EST Tuesday and 2pm EST Wednesday, a new Sherlock Holmes book will go live on Kindle. The title is _At the Mercy of the Mind: A Journey into the Depths of Sherlock Holmes_. It is written by yours truly.

_**Please go check it out once it's out!**_

**To my reviewers:**

egaara: Ha-ha, thank you!

Isilarma: Glad you liked the texting. =) …Perhaps, perhaps… ^_^ Glad you liked Sherlock—I have to admit, I'm kind of walking on eggshells making sure that I get him right. Thank you!

Shadow Chaser: W-O-W. O.O _Thank you!_ Upended… wow. Wow, wow, wow. *blushes* Thank you so much for adding this to your C2—I'm honored! And just… thank you, period!

Moonspun Dragon: Well, it's only _logical_ when you think about it. ^_^ John's in critical condition—Mycroft, for all Sherlock knows, is not and is capable of taking care of himself. I think that, if Sherlock were to have known what was really going on with Big Brother, he would've been just as worried. I think I shall do that fic—and one with texts between Anthea and Mycroft. *hearts* Ugh, I'm sure he will. Thank you!

SabrinaPhynn: Lol, _Sherlock_ does have some great females, doesn't it? I just hope that they'll do Irene justice. Well, I've been watching the show a few minutes at a time with my brother, who hadn't seen it before, so… At least I'm watching it again. And with him—shows are more fun when you can share the experience with family. =) Thank you!

Lozzy-heartz-Bookz: Not every chapter can be ratcheted with tension—some are necessary characterization-builders, and some have things that might not be exciting but are absolutely necessary. We needed to see Anthea and Mycroft on their way to the hospital, we needed to see Sherlock worried about John, Anthea needed to tell Irene, and Harry… well, I needed to build up her characterization a little further.

**==12. Between Hope and Fear==**

Irene was waiting at the A&E entrance when Anthea came in, keeping alongside a stretcher… Oh, man. _Mycroft_.

The American woman grimaced at the elder Holmes brother's white face and the blood staining his combat suit. She grimaced further as she took in Anthea's appearance—the PA looked pretty much like the walking dead. Anthea swayed on her feet as she followed the stretcher, and Irene hurried forward to steady her. "Okay, I'm okay," Anthea murmured.

"No, you're not," Irene said firmly. "Frankly, I've seen corpses that looked better."

"I need to follow—"

"Nuh-uh." Irene grabbed Anthea's arms and forcibly pulled her over to the sitting area. The resistance Anthea gave was feeble—the poor girl must be dead-tired. "You're gonna stay put, and you're gonna get some rest if I have to _sedate_ you to do it."

The British woman gave Irene a half-hearted glare. "Bossy."

"Mule-headed," Irene shot back, pushing her charge down into a chair. "Coffee?"

Anthea nodded wordlessly.

Irene smirked—how many times under her Molly persona had she offered Sherlock, Lestrade, and now John coffee? Just call her the Caffeine Lady. "Be right back, then."

But when she returned, she found Anthea slumped sideways in her seat, asleep. "Anthea?" she murmured. "Ann?" Nope, the girl was out of it. Irene sighed and set the coffee down, taking the chair beside Anthea and settling in for yet another wait.

Seemed to be the story of her life lately.

* * *

><p>He drifted.<p>

It was the only word that came to mind. He just drifted in… nothingness, really. He had a nagging feeling that he was supposed to be struggling, for some reason, but he wanted nothing more than to ignore that feeling and just let complete oblivion take him.

Then he heard it.

Crying.

He heard a thick voice, and he knew he recognized it—knew it well, in fact. He just couldn't place it. He couldn't make out the words at first, but then he began to concentrate…

And he started to feel grounded, as if a great weight was tugging him down, down, down…

"…please…im…just wake…God…up…let him…_please_…"

Despite the horrid feeling of gravity returning and beginning to suffocate him, he wanted nothing more than to reach out to the owner of that voice and comfort it.

Her.

He wanted… he wanted…

His eyelids were so heavy…

Wait, they were closed. He was asleep.

He wanted to wake up.

No, he was awake. He just needed to open his eyes…

His hand moved before his eyelids did. It hurt horribly, but it moved, and it brushed against something. It took him a few seconds to identify it as he dimly registered a gasp. That something he'd touched was another hand.

At last, his eyelids lifted, sluggishly, and it took another minute for him to focus properly.

"JOHN!"

That startled him completely awake, and he stared at his sister in shock. "'arry," he croaked.

Harry looked like she was about to shriek and then thought better of it. She leaned forward instead and raised her brother into a hug. "John! Ohhh, big brother… Wait a second. You idiot! Do you have any idea how much you scared us all?"

John sighed wearily. "Not the one… who set off the bomb…"

She snorted. "Yeah, well…" Her blue eyes widened. "Good grief, Sherlock! I've gotta go tell him!"

"Wha—_Sherlock?_ Sherlock's okay?"

"I'll be right back!"

* * *

><p>Sherlock Holmes's first encounter with the sister of his flatmate came in the form of said sister bursting into his room unannounced and making his mother and nurse jump and whirl around. "You're Sherlock, right?" the blonde demanded excitedly.<p>

Sherlock broke into as brilliant a smile as he could manage without hurting himself. "John's awake."

The blonde's posture drooped, and she threw her hands up theatrically. "Oh, great. First time I meet you, and it's to tell you that my brother made it, and you _freaking figure it out before I can tell you!_"

The nurse frowned at the loud intruder. Mummy just rubbed bridge of her nose and shook her head.

Sherlock couldn't help smirk a little. "Why else would John's sister burst into my room looking like she's about to explode from excitement?"

"Argh, okay, fine—be that way." She folded her arms and looked away.

Sherlock merely cocked a sardonic eyebrow and said nothing.

Harry turned back fractionally. "Harriet Watson. Nice to meet you."

"Sherlock Holmes. Wish I could say the same."

"Sherlock," Cecile groaned.

Harry gave an amused snort, and Sherlock decided that he liked her. "You know, you really are a jerk," she said frankly. "But I can also see why my brother likes you."

Sherlock raised both eyebrows.

She shook her head. "Never mind. I'm going back to John now—I just wanted you to know." She turned to leave.

"Harriet?" She turned halfway back. "Thanks."

She tossed him a smile over her shoulder and left.

* * *

><p><strong>Irene:<strong> geoff, we've got a situation.

**G. Lestrade:** oh, great. what is it NOW?

**Irene:** well, two, actually. one is that mycroft is in A&E right now. critical condition.

**G. Lestrade:** WONDERFUL

**Irene:** two is… has mycroft ever mentioned colonel moran to you?

**G. Lestrade:** name doesn't ring a bell, no. why?

**Irene:** he was moriarty's right-hand man.

**G. Lestrade:** great. i take it we can expect a visit?

Irene: he was in hong kong just yesterday, and now he's disappeared. MI6 is trying to track down his whereabouts, but it's a safe bet that he's coming here.

**G. Lestrade:** damn

**Irene:** you don't even know the half of it. if i'm figuring this right, he'll come after sherlock. but he's something of a wild-card, and here's why:

**Irene:** he and sherlock attended cambridge together.

**G. Lestrade:** WHAT?

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

*whistles innocently* You didn't expect me to forget Colonel Moran, did you? *mischievous smile* HA, there's still a bit of tension yet to be had!

So glad that John's awake—and I've found that, even though I don't approve of Harry's chosen lifestyle, I love the character herself. (…And we never even SEE her.) Now if Mycroft can just pull himself together… Personally, I'd very much like to do a sequel, 'cause there's a lot more that I'd like to do with this alternate universe I've established. But we'll see. I can't promise anything for certain.

Btw, thank you to the most recent favourites and subscriptions!

Next up… _definite_ Mythea. And Jorah (John/Sarah—yeah, yeah, sue me, lol). ^_^ Stay tuned!

_**Please review!**_


	13. Ladies, Loves, and 'Lowances

**IMPORTANT NOTICE #1:**

_At the Mercy of the Mind: A Journey into the Depths of Sherlock Holmes_ is now available at $5.99, and can be linked to from my profile.

Yes, it's canon!Sherlock, not modern!Sherlock, but if you like this story, chances are good you'll like that book. At least check it out, pretty please?

* * *

><p><strong>IMPORTANT NOTICE #2:<strong>

I can no longer guarantee Mondays as update days (in case you hadn't noticed =P)—from now on, updates will be sporadic. Plus, I will probably be without 'Net access starting sometime next month and stretching into August. There may be times when I'll have the chance to jump online, but I can't guarantee anything until _**September**_, when I should hopefully have full Internet access once more. Believe me, I'll miss you guys as much as you'll miss me!

* * *

><p><strong>To my reviewers:<strong>

Isilarma: Thank you very much!

egaara: *mysterious look* Don't worry, you'll find out about Colonel Moran soon enough… Yay for Mythea and Jorah, amirite? =D

Shadow Chaser: Let's see, can I pencil in Sherlock for some heroics, can I, can I… Y'know, I think I can! =) Actually, your request was the encouragement I needed to go through with an idea, so… thanks!

SabrinaPhynn: Aw, poor dear! *pats shoulder* Thank you!

Moonspun Dragon: That was… too long and choppy a review to reply to, so I will just say "thanks" and leave it at that. ^_^

Vetinari: Thank you very much! And it never hurts a writer to have more praise heaped on (very beneficial to their muses, doncha know ;D). Yes, Cambridge—that is where the worthy Dorothy Sayers deduced canon!Sherlock to have gone to college (she also came up with the idea of Watson's middle name being "Hamish"). As for Selywn College, I have no idea—I'll have to do a little looking into the university! =)

Tanigi: Wow, thank you very much! Writing Molly as Irene is fantastically fun, and I absolutely adore my own version of Mummy. =D And I know what you mean about Harry—I don't think I've ever found a fic, either, in which I actually _like_ her. I'm really trying to stay close to the way she sounds on the fake blog the BBC has for John, while adding my own character development to make her three-dimensional. I'm very happy that you love my good grammar. *grins* I'm a perfectionist when it comes to grammar. As for Colonel Moran and Anthea… *whistles innocently* You'll find out soon enough! ^_^ Again, thanks!

* * *

><p><strong>==13. Ladies, Loves, and 'Lowances==<strong>

"Knock-knock." Irene poked her head into the room. "I come bearing coffee."

Cecile turned from her son to smile at the American. "Irene. Thank you." She accepted the proffered cup gratefully.

"Just call me the Caffeine Lady," Irene said cheerfully, shooting Sherlock a meaningful glance. She got a look back that was the equivalent of a smirk with eyes alone.

Cecile glanced back and forth between them. "Children," she said mock-warningly.

"I'll be good if he'll be good," said Irene.

"I won't be good," Sherlock murmured.

Cecile cast her gaze heavenward in a Lord-give-me-strength look. Irene smiled fleetingly before her expression turned solemn. "Mrs. Holmes—"

"_Cecile_, dear, please."

"Cecile. Would you mind stepping out into the hall for a few minutes? There's something I need to discuss with Sherlock."

"Of course." Cecile nodded graciously and stood. "I would like to find the Detective Inspector, anyway."

"Geoff is down in the café, I think, grabbing a quick bite to eat."

"All right, thanks."

"No problem." As soon as Cecile had shut the door behind her, Irene spun around toward Sherlock. "Okay, this is crazy, but we're going to be getting a visitor soon."

"One of Moriarty's henchmen."

"Right-hand."

Sherlock's eyebrows went up. "Really? I'm honored."

"You're _finito_ if we don't come up with a plan."

"Do we know him?"

"Yeees. Rather well, in fact." Irene ran both hands through her hair. "I… Oh, golly, you're not gonna believe this."

"Try me."

Irene took a deep breath and let it out. "Ho-kay. You do know him. You, personally."

He frowned. "What? Impossible. How could I personally know a…" His eyes widened slightly in remembrance.

"Yeah." It was going to rankle for a long time to come that Moriarty had duped her so thoroughly. They'd never _kissed_, thank God, but she'd still gone out a few times with him and even had _held his hand_! Considering who James Moriarty had been and what he had done, she felt… tainted.

She watched as Sherlock cycled through his list of contacts and acquaintances in his head, examining and discarding each one. She could almost _see_ cogs turning inside. At last, he hit upon a possibility, because he frowned again and snorted disbelievingly. "No way," he rasped.

She cocked an eyebrow.

"Not…" Yep, he'd nailed it. "But he's—"

"Yeah."

"And he—"

"Yeah."

"_Stop_ that."

"Sorry."

He shut his eyes. "God."

"Language," Irene said absently. "Your mummy doesn't like it."

His eyes flew open. "_Irene_, I—oh, no, does _Ann_ know?"

Irene looked down. "Yes, she does. She's known for the past year."

"The past… _year?_ Why the _hell_ didn't anyone _tell_ me?"

Irene sighed. "The two of you hadn't had anything to _do_ with each other 'til a month ago. Ann was working with her old team on the case, and, well, Mycroft didn't want you to tangle with Moriarty." She let out a short laugh. "He _really_ didn't want you to tangle with Moriarty."

"I sense there's much more to this story than I know," Sherlock said in a quiet, almost dangerous tone.

Irene groaned and finger-combed her hair again. "James Moriarty used to be MI5. In fact, he used to be the best, alongside Mycroft."

It was Sherlock's turn to groan. "Dammit, Irene, I don't _ever_ want to be left out of the loop like this again. Whatever else you're hiding under the blanket of "classified-for-Sherlock's-own-good," you'd better bring it out _now_."

"Later," she corrected. "I'll tell you everything—and I do mean _everything_—later. Right now, we've got to plan for our visitor."

"Yeah…" He sighed. "I want my patches."

"Darn the patches, Sherlock. You can think without them."

He exhaled explosively. "Right. Now… oh! Oh!" His eyes lit up, and Irene knew she was about to be hit with a brilliant and probably crazy idea. "Irene, I've got it!"

* * *

><p>He looked so peaceful right now, as if he hadn't been within inches of losing his life. She sank into the chair beside the bed and settled in for a long wait. Her nap in the waiting room had not been long, and she felt the pull of sleep now. But she didn't want to go to sleep. She couldn't. It could take a while, but she wanted to be there when he woke up.<p>

Good grief, Cecile didn't even know yet. Maybe she'd ask Geoff to pass on the news—she was too tired herself to deal with a worried mother.

She reached out tentatively and brushed at his hair, then grew bolder and smoothed his hair down. He looked so peaceful. He looked like the man she knew existed beneath the callous, bureaucratic façade he showed the world—even his own brother. The man who felt deeply and loved devotedly, the man who nicknamed her "Annie," the man who was content just to sit with her in the soft glow of dawn following a sleepless night, both of them cradling large mugs of coffee and letting the warmth permeate them.

Was that love? Those rare, shared moments of peace when they could just forget about the world just beyond the walls of his office, when they didn't even need to talk because each knew what the other was thinking? Or when one wondered if the other was going to make it through a dangerous situation safely? Or when… when he gave her one of those atypical genuine smiles that just lit up his face and turned her knees to gelatin? And when she smiled back, just as warmly, and almost laughed to see red creeping across his face?

Yes…

Yes, that was love.

She gently clasped his hand in both of hers and raised it to her pursed lips as she tried not to cry. She didn't even know why she was crying, because it was all going to be okay…

But it was as if all the tension that had built up inside over the past twenty-four or more hours had just snapped, and she let the storm out. It felt so good.

* * *

><p>"Hey there."<p>

John looked past his sister to see his girlfriend peeking into the room. "Sarah," he smiled. "Come on—" he coughed (and, _ouch_, it hurt)—"come on in."

Harry looked between the two of them and smiled. "I'll be going then."

"Thanks, sis," he said sincerely.

She merely winked at him before sweeping past Sarah and shutting the door behind her. Sarah stood at the foot of the bed and clasped her hands before her, wearing a bright, nervous smile. "Well, you look good, under the circumstances."

John rolled his eyes. "I look half-dead, so I've been informed."

"Well, yeah, but… you… were? So, you know…"

He chuckled softly. "C'mon—come sit down. What's wrong, hmm? You look all… anxious, I guess."

Sarah shrugged. "Well, it's been a long day."

"Guess it has been."

"Yeah…"

"Is this about you and Harry?"

Her face fell. "She told you?"

He snorted lightly. "Yeah. Don't let it get to you, Sarah—she doesn't blame you for it, and neither do I. I probably wouldn't've reacted any differently."

Sarah sighed and looked down. "Doesn't matter. I shouldn't have done that. That was totally unprofessional and uncalled for."

"So, we can be unprofessional together," he quipped. "Come on, Sarah, there's more to this than that."

She sighed again and raked a hand through her strawberry-blond hair. "John, it's just… it's just _this_." She gestured around with a look of helpless frustration. "You were almost killed, and I couldn't do anything about it, and _I hate it_."

Oh. _Oh_. "Sarah… oh, god, I don't know what to say. I just know… it's not going to get any better. There are always going to be times when I run the risk of getting myself killed. If it's not with Sherlock, it'll be some other way, like Afghanistan. That's just… that's just who I am. I can't… I can't live without that element of danger, of adrenaline."

She smiled fleetingly. "It's what makes you, you." She reached out to stroke his face. "John, I realize that now. I do. It's just… going to take some time to get used to. Okay?" She smiled a bit more fully.

"Okay." He gave her a reassuring look. "We'll take it slow, all right? And, you know, if you just… if you just can't handle it…"

She pressed her index finger gently against his lips with a "Shh." She leaned over and gave him a genuine smile. "I can. So I guess you're just stuck with me."

He smiled beneath her finger. "I think I can live with that."

She bent down further and kissed him.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

Once more, for the record, I don't use swear language. The only reason the characters are doing it in this story is because they already do it in the show. And it's nice to get those words exorcised from my head via fic dialogue. You have no idea how nice.

Now, a quick word about my ships. Mythea is my OTP, hands down. Mycroft/Anthea is _awesome_. And I know that poor Sarah isn't very popular (she's not even on the site's character list!), but despite that (or possibly partly _because_ of it), I love her. I really hope that she and John get married, and that they don't kill her off. She's a great character, and she's a wonderful significant other for John! And as for Irene!Molly… you know, I'm more than half tempted to try some sort of platonic romance between Irene and Sherlock. Frankly, I think it would be awfully cute. I could almost see it working, even going on a canonical characterization for Sherlock… Give me a heads-up on that, will you please? I'd like to hear your thoughts about it.

So next up… no idea when I'll be able to post, but next time _should_ see the pace picking back up and _maybe_ even Mycroft awake. Maybe. No promises, but it's possible. ;D

_**Please review!**_


	14. Joy

**Author's Note:**

Sadly, I don't have time to answer reviews this time. So very sorry! I might not have even got this small chapter up, but I wanted to do _something_, so I managed a short installment.

Tomorrow, I go offline (see profile for details). *whimper* I'll see you guys here and there in the next two months, though.

**==14. Joy==**

Unlike most human beings, he does not dream when he sleeps.

He _remembers_.

He remembers his mother's heartbeat from within the womb, he recalls being sung to sleep at an age far earlier than most people's memories can reach. He remembers life in Essex, before the family shifted back and forth between the country estate and the London house.

He remembers his little brother's birth, and he remembers how scared he was to hear Mummy cry out, because Mummy doesn't scream or cry. Mummy is strong. And why was it bad that Sherlock was coming out feet-first?

He remembers those golden times that Dad came home. He is more like Dad than Mummy, and Sherlock is more like Mummy than Dad. Dad might not have been home often, but that didn't make him any less a good father. If he wasn't home, he made it clear that his boys could call him _any_ time, day or night, if one of them had a problem.

He wonders now just how much time he and Sherlock took away from their father with their many, many phone calls.

He remembers graduating as a young teen, and preparing to enter MI5 when he was old enough. He remembers his rookie years.

Then… he _stops_ remembering, because at that point, his family was still whole and together and happy, and he won't remember What Came Next if he can help it. But Mycroft Holmes cannot control his subconscious any more than any other person can.

So he _does_ remember his father's killing, seeing a corpse and knowing that _it used to be __**Dad**_, the funeral, Sherlock's pent-up grief, the investigation into the killing conducted by the Brothers Holmes, and then finding out that Sherlock was doing _drugs_…

"Shh, Mycroft, it's okay."

Very familiar voice. Why can't he place it?

"It's okay."

For heaven's sakes, he hears that voice every day!

"You're okay."

Oh. Oh, wait. He can place it now.

"Just… wake up, will you?"

Oh, Annie.

"Please. Just come back."

It feels like a long, hard journey back to the land of the living—and there are few things he dislikes more than having to work long and hard to accomplish something, but it's worth it. Because she's at the end of the journey, and the utter look of _Joy_ in her face when he opens his eyes is worth the world.

"_Mycroft!_"

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

Fluuuuff. =D I love Mycroft. I love Anthea. I love Mythea. OTP.

I'd wanted my next chapter to be longer and end with action. Will have to wait for the _next_ chapter. =/

Well, God bless y'all! Catch you later!

_**Please review!**_


	15. Countermoves

**Author's Note:**

Still a bit hard to answer reviews right now, sorry… but please keep that love coming! =)

Kind of a lot of Irene in this chapter, but at last the pace picks up, so… Yeah, it's all good. ^_^ In fact, we're actually getting close to the end. Two or three more installments to go (four at the very most, I think), and then on to the sequel!

…Oh, sorry! Did I neglect to mention there'd be a _sequel_? Yeah, well, I'd debated about it a lot, finally decided that I probably should. Updates _will_ be slow, but there _will_ be a sequel. (And sometime soon, that fic with texts between Anthea and Irene on a normal day with the Brothers Holmes. ;D)

* * *

><p><strong>==15. Countermoves==<strong>

"Okay, I'm trying to figure out whether you really are as much of a genius as you claim or whether you've finally flipped. Maybe both. It's insane and brilliant."

"And?"

"And I wished I'd thought of it first."

Sherlock gave that characteristic sardonic little smile. "Now, I want to see John."

Irene sighed, exapserated. "Sherlock, both of you are in intensive care—neither of you are in any _condition_ to be moved."

"Then set up a _video feed_, but I want. To see. _John_."

Irene threw her hands up, placating. "Okay, okay, I'll fix something up…"

Five minutes later, Sherlock and John were on borrowed laptops—with the help of Irene and Sarah—and using a secure video feed that Irene had set up.

"John, are you all right?" Sherlock said as soon as the image of his flatmate appeared.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'll be all right—ah… how are you?" The doctor's bewildered look was rather endearing, Irene thought.

"Oh, fine." With two words in a certain tone, Sherlock had just dismissed the biggest mother-load of injuries Irene had ever seen. "You're sure you're all right?"

"_Yes_, Sherlock, I will_ be okay_." Not too hurt to get irritated with Sherlock—yep, Irene loved this guy.

"All right, good. Stay sharp—we'll be having a visitor soon. Confederate of Moriarty's. Right-hand." Irene was left in amazement at how the man could continue to speak without stopping for breath.

"_Lovely_."

"Not so terrible—we have Irene and Lestrade to do the dirty work."

"_Thanks_," Irene muttered.

"Irene? I'm sorry—who's Irene?"

Irene bent down into view of the webcam. "Hi, Dr. Watson," she said in her Molly voice.

John blinked. "Wha…"

"I didn't have the go-ahead to tell you before," Irene continued in her real voice, "but I might as well tell you now, and to heck with my superiors." She grinned fleetingly. "I'm CIA. I was assigned to Sherlock as his bodyguard a few years ago, back when he started working with Scotland Yard."

"And Molly Hooper was your cover," John said wonderingly.

"Yes. My real name is Irene Adler, I was born in New Jersey, and this really isn't how I look." Her hand strayed up to brush a strand of hair behind her ear. "I'm actually even prettier." She winked good-naturedly, and John chuckled.

"Plastic surgery?"

"Got it in one."

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Yes, well, if we may continue?" He shot a pointed look at Irene, who gestured obligingly toward the laptop. "Thank you. Anyway, John, we're going to get Lestrade's people in here to net this man; he's coming after me. Don't worry, Irene will be looking out for me."

Irene bent back down into the camera and nodded. "Trust me, John—if I have to knock this guy out, tie him up, and throw him in the closet, I will."

John snickered. "I… can almost _see_ that…"

"_John_."

John cleared his throat rather exaggeratedly and gave Sherlock a contrite look. "Sorry. I'm sorry."

Sherlock shook his head. "So that's what's going on right now. Oh, and Mycroft's down for the count—apparently, he bit off more than he could swallow."

If Irene didn't know her charge as well as she did, she would have labeled Sherlock as being completely apathetic to his brother's wellbeing. But she knew better. That off-note in the voice, that tightening around the eyes? He was bothered, and, more than that, he was worried.

John frowned. "Mycroft? What's he been—"

"He had it out with Moriarty," Irene explained before Sherlock could speak. "Moriarty's dead now—" John's eyes widened incredulously—"but he made sure to leave a parting gift. Mycroft's been stabilized, but he's lost a lot of blood."

"_Mycroft?_"

"John, he's MI5, okay?" Sherlock sighed. "He did fieldwork before he was promoted all the way up to the physical manifestation of the British government. Hard to believe, I know, but it's true."

John shook his head minutely. "The things you learn…"

"Well, while you two catch up, I'm gonna go find Lestrade," Irene murmured to Sherlock. "I'll see you later, John."

"Uh, right. See you."

She couldn't resist blowing a kiss to Sherlock before she left—he merely rolled his eyes in response. She could just hear the sarcasm: _Romance is dull; kissing is boring_. She laughed to herself as she strode down the hall.

* * *

><p>Lestrade rubbed at his temples and thought a few things not lawful to be uttered. "You've <em>got<em> to be kidding me."

"C'mon, Geoff—this is _Sherlock_ we're talking about."

"Right. Silly me—_how_ could I have forgotten that?"

Molly—_Irene_—looked unimpressed. _I'll bet she's a terror to behold in her own sphere_, was his irreverent thought. "Are you going to call in your people or not?" she demanded.

"Yes, okay? And you'll get that thing from 221B?"

"You bet. Also going to have a quick chat with Mrs. Hudson, give the poor woman an update. She's probably half-frantic with worry."

"Yeah," Lestrade nodded sympathetically. "Those boys are like the kids she never had, from what I can tell."

"Definitely." Irene sighed and slung her purse back around her shoulder. "Well, I'll be seeing you in a few."

"Right. Be careful."

She smiled—it was a brilliant, gorgeous smile that transformed her whole face. "I will, thanks. You be careful, too."

As he watched her go, he wondered how often she was told to take care with genuine concern behind the words. He didn't even know if she had any family, let alone if she was close to them. Or if she was close to _anyone_, aside from Anthea. She seemed to work rather as a lone wolf, but by necessity rather than by choice or preference.

He made a mental note to get to know Sherlock Holmes's official bodyguard better—maybe see if she'd have dinner with the family sometime. She struck him as the type who'd get along well with kids, given the chance.

* * *

><p>"Annie," he pushed out in a croak. <em>Good lord, when was the last time I've felt this terrible?<em>

He _watched_ his PA pull herself back together, piece by piece, watched the mask of professionalism slip into place. He realized that he didn't want to see the real woman beneath that mask go. "Oh, sir, you had us so scared," she said, a little breathlessly. So, not quite fully professional yet.

"Sorry about that," he said hoarsely. "Mm, might I have some water, my dear? I'm afraid my throat feels like the Sahara."

Something indefinable flitted across her lovely features. "Sure. Just a minute." She walked out a bit slowly, and Mycroft could see in his mind's eye her slumping against the wall beyond in relief and venting a bit more emotion before she returned and had to be his subordinate again.

It was the work of five seconds for Mycroft's supercomputer brain to catalogue his emotions, the work of half a minute to compile relevant memories, and the work of a full minute to make sense of it all. It took that long because he was working with matters of the heart—that was trickier than the most complicated bill he had ever seen pass in Parliament. He fully understood why Sherlock disliked and distrusted emotions—they were messy things, to be sure. Mycroft, on the other hand, didn't try to live without them—he had simply learned from an early age to harness them. Ironically, Sherlock was more openly emotional than his older brother.

Thus, it took Mycroft less than two minutes to work out that he had a romantic attachment to Anthea, and she to him. (_And where _is_ she with that water?_) It wasn't just emotions, either—it was an actual bond existing between them. Somewhere along the line, a definite platonic friendship had grown into something deeper.

Mycroft had considered marriage before. Mummy wanted badly (she never put it in that light, but he saw it, nonetheless) for at least one of her boys to give her the daughter she'd never had, as well as a grandchild or two. It wasn't that Mycroft was adverse to marriage (another point upon which he and Sherlock differed), but that he'd simply never found a woman with whom he'd really care to spend the rest of his life. Or that would spend the rest of her life with him—he knew that his job would make family life difficult.

Mummy liked Anthea. Actually, Mummy _adored_ Anthea. And Mycroft could read between the lines with his mother regarding his PA. Had Mummy perhaps seen something that he had just never considered?

Anthea returned with the water, handed it to him with a demure "Here you are, sir."

Mycroft reflected for a moment, then spoke with all his characteristic deliberation. "Anthea, it has not escaped my attention that you've been working under a lot of stress lately."

"Haven't we all?"

"Indeed. Nor has it escaped my attention that I myself have not had a decent time-off in quite a long time."

Anthea gave him a look that was equal parts sympathy and sarcasm: Mycroft almost _never_ took time-off. "And?" she prompted gently.

Mycroft drummed his fingers on the side railing of his bed—he missed his umbrella. "I propose a short holiday, no more than a weekend, once I'm certain I can get away safely."

"A short holiday… for both of us?"

"Well, of course, we can go our separate ways if you want, but we spend so little time together outside of a professional capacity…"

She shook her head in bewilderment. "W-where would we be going?"

He shrugged. "Anywhere you like. We could go to China, if it suited your fancy."

She gave him a definite sarcastic look. "After that smuggling ring run-in with your brother? No thank you."

He chuckled, sincerely. "Brittany, then. When was the last time you were in Brittany?"

She blinked. "Not since secondary school… That would be lovely." She nodded, then smiled in confusion. "You'd really go to Brittany?"

He nodded back. "Of course. It's a lovely place, rich with history…" _And _your_ history is there, as well_. …Then current events at last caught up with his mind, and he couldn't believe how slow-witted he'd been. "The operation! Sherlock! Annie, what—"

"I was waiting for that," she smirked, this time without a hint of sarcasm. "Mission accomplished, and Sherlock and John are awake." He exhaled in relief. "They'll recover. It'll be months before they're back to full capacity, but _they'll get there_."

Mycroft melted back into the bed with the profoundest sense of relief and gratitude he'd ever known. "Thank God," he murmured.

Anthea nodded. "I think we'll all live, miraculously enough."

Mycroft gave a genuine laugh, and Anthea smiled brilliantly. _Hmm_. _To borrow John's words, this could be very nice. Very nice, indeed_.

* * *

><p>The woman Irene met in the doorway of 221 Baker Street… was older. Tired. Her bloodshot eyes lit with anxiety as she recognized the "secret agent" she had met only a handful of times in the past. "My boys," she whispered. "How are my boys?"<p>

Irene felt a swift and deep pang of guilt for not thinking to phone Mrs. Hudson once Sherlock and John woke. "They're all right," Irene said gently, watching the tears reform in the older woman's eyes. "They'll be all right."

"Ohhh, thank heavens," Mrs. Hudson said thickly. "Come in, dear. Come in and let me fix you a cuppa." She gestured inside.

"Thank you," Irene murmured as she entered the building. "Mrs. Hudson, I am so sorry I didn't call. I should have remembered—"

"Oh, don't worry about it, love," the landlady tearfully assured her. "You must have been too relieved to… don't mind me. I'll be all right. Thank you for coming."

The pang became a knife that twisted viciously in Irene's heart. "I'm afraid that wasn't the only reason for my coming," she said slowly as she took a seat in Mrs. Hudson's kitchen, watching the other woman bustle around her. "You see, I need to pick up something of Sherlock's, upstairs."

Mrs. Hudson chuckled slightly. "Good luck finding anything in that mess, dearie. The world's only private consulting detective Sherlock Edward Holmes may be, but that man cannot keep his rooms in any sort of order."

Irene snorted in amusement. "Believe me, ma'am, I know."

"Here you go." Mrs. Hudson set down a cup and saucer, and Irene smiled her thanks. _Tea_. She could count with one hand the number of occasions she'd drunk tea in her lifetime. She was American, and a typical American coffee enthusiast.

_Here goes nothing_. She took a tentative sip. Hot and loaded with caffeine without the coffee taste—yeeeah, she'd stick to coffee. Or if she ever took up tea, it'd be that decaffeinated fruit-flavor stuff. She'd had that once; it was good.

Between sips, she filled Mrs. Hudson in on the boys' conditions, taking care to downplay the severity. No sense in paining her further. Then the teacup was empty, Irene stood, said "thank you," and hurried upstairs to find Sherlock's… interesting possession. It was one of the few things he and Mycroft had ever agreed upon.

As she suspected, she found it fairly quickly. It was just too big to hide effectively unless you had a secret panel closet or something… she briefly wondered if Mycroft had ever installed something of the sort in 221B.

Her odd prize secured in a bundle slung over her shoulder, she hurried back downstairs and out. _Here we go_.

* * *

><p>It was late, but, of course, hospitals never slept. That was okay. He just needed his target to be asleep.<p>

The curtain was up around the bed, which was good. He slipped into the bathroom, opened up his suitcase, and started piecing the rifle together. It was an old thing, an air-gun made in the nineteenth century by a blind German mechanic, but it did the job. Finished, he slipped back out and approached the bed.

The heart monitor beeped a steady rate—the monitors were the only source of light in the room. He stared at the curtain and swallowed. "Well, Sherlock, I guess this is it," he murmured. "I sure didn't want to have to do this—never thought I'd have to. We weren't friends, but I _did_ like you, quirks and all. But… you got in the way, you know? So… I'm sorry."

He pulled back the curtain and looked down at the bed's occupant. Wow. The man had really done a number on himself…

He hefted up the rifle and aimed for the head. Messy, but instant. Sherlock Holmes would never even feel it.

He fired.

Red flew everywhere, and yet…

…the heart monitor _continued_.

"What the—"

"Sebastian," said an all-too-familiar voice from behind, "I never knew you cared so much." And he heard the unmistakable sounds of two guns' safeties clicking _off_.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

Evil cliffie! =D Okay, so has anybody figured the whole thing out, with Sherlock's visitor? I bet at least one of you has! C'mon, c'mon, tell me! The clues are there—come to think of it, I _piled_ them on. Lemme hear what you've got!

Oh, and cookies of your choice to anyone who can tell me what it was that Irene got from 221B!

I was glad to finally address the matter of Mrs. Hudson. Poor woman—but she never seemed to fit well into any of the previous chapters.

Anyway, next chapter, we get a little bit of action, and we get things clearly defined. Stay tuned!

_**Please review!**_


End file.
